


Father of the Bride

by November Snowflake (novembersnow)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry, Community: hd_holidays, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Multi, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:05:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novembersnow/pseuds/November%20Snowflake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's little girl is getting married, and the identity of her chosen suitor is about to open up a world of complications—for better and for worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father of the Bride

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted January 8, 2009.
> 
> Written for anathema91 in the winter 2008 round of H/D Holidays. Thank you to Maerda Erised and Supergrover24 for feedback, and to the fest mods for their patience.

_The scar is almost gone. Remember when  
you stared at it in horror? Fresh and raw,  
it seemed a curse on someone else's skin.  
It was. It has not healed, that scar you saw._  
-Bruce Bennett

Letting the last of his babies leave the nest had been hard. Watching her depart for a year-long Gringotts training period in Egypt had been harder. But Harry hadn't been at all prepared to steel himself for those words every doting father dreads to hear: 

"I'm getting married."

Harry sat upright in his chair, all his joy at once again having all of his children gathered around him evaporating with the shock brought on by those three simple words. To either side of him, his sons mirrored his posture. All three men began speaking at once.

"Lily, what—"

"Who is—"

"Are you serious—"

She laughed, setting down her teacup with a soft clink and brushing her flame-red hair back over her shoulder. "I knew you'd react that way. That's why I waited until we were all back together."

"Lily," Harry said, only a little desperately. "When? How—"

She beamed at him across the table. "We've been seeing each other for a while now—almost since I got to Egypt. And he proposed the night before I left."

Harry's heart sank. Egypt. Was she already planning to leave again, when she'd only just returned from so long away?

James's face was a thundercloud, his long-held overprotective brother persona slipping on again easily. "You're not marrying some Egyptian bloke we've never even met."

"He isn't Egyptian," she replied calmly, settling back in her chair and crossing her legs. "He's English. He was traveling in Egypt on business, and we started spending time together because we both were a little lonely and missing home."

"Is it someone we know?" Al asked.

Her calm faltered just a tad—momentarily enough that someone with less experience reading people might have missed it. But Harry knew his daughter.

"Yes," she said. "He went to Hogwarts. Actually, he was in your year, Al."

There was a long pause.

"Well?" Al prompted.

She sighed. "It's Scorpius Malfoy."

There was a single, pregnant moment of absolute calm, then three male voices exploded with various degrees of outrage.

"Malfoy! That slimy bastard? How could you even—"

"He was a rotten little cheat, Lil, you know that—"

"Lily, do you even know what his family—"

With every word spoken, her chin lifted another notch and her normally warm brown eyes grew icier. When she didn't respond, Harry, James, and Al finally stopped talking and looked at her expectantly.

"If you're quite finished," she said.

Three faces scowled at her.

"Scorp is a good man," she said, and raised a hand when Al began to interject. "No, Al, you shut up and let me talk. He's a _good man_. Of course I remember him from school, and I remember that you hated him—that both of you hated him. And, yeah, he was kind of a spoilt brat in school, but he was hardly the evil, menacing figure you made him out to be. And he _didn't cheat_ , James," she said, swinging her cold gaze in his direction. "He was just better at Quidditch than you were, and you hated it."

James shoved a biscuit in his mouth and glared, but didn't say a word.

"And, Dad," she said, "I know you have problems with his family. I remember the stories. I know what his father did, what his grandfather did. But his grandfather is dead, and his father isn't that same stupid young Death Eater anymore. Scorp told me his father never, ever talks about that period in his life because he's so ashamed of what he did. And I met him a few times when he was traveling with Scorp—he was always very kind to me, even though it's pretty clear he holds you in about the same regard as you do him."

Harry sighed and closed his eyes. It wasn't that he still hated Draco Malfoy. It had been too many years, too much water under the bridge. But they'd certainly never become friends. They barely had a nodding acquaintanceship. Harry had seen him at Platform 9-3/4 for seven years, and they occasionally passed each other in the halls of the Ministry or in Diagon Alley. They weren't on bad terms, but they weren't on particularly good terms either. The only truly human gesture Harry had seen from Malfoy in the decades since they'd been at school together had been the wholly unexpected, albeit very stiff and formal, sympathy note he'd received from Malfoy after Ginny had died five years ago. Harry had been unable to bring himself to send one in return when Malfoy's father had died a couple of years later; he wasn't hypocrite enough to pretend he was sorry Lucius Malfoy was dead.

Lily rose from her chair and walked around the table, wrapping her arms around Harry from behind and setting her cheek against his.

"I love him, Daddy," she said simply. "I want you to love him, too. I want you to be happy for me."

"I am, pumpkin," he said. "I—I will be."

"That goes for you tossers as well," she added, her face swinging right, then left, to take in both her scowling brothers.

The two young men eyed each other across the table, holding an entire, fleeting conversation in silence. "We'll be civil if Malfoy will," James said at last.

She sighed and drew back from Harry. "You don't know him like I do."

"And you don't know him like we do," Al retorted.

"Be that as it may," Harry interrupted, "it's now up to all of us to _get_ to know him as Lily's fiancé." He caught Lily's hand before she could walk away and stood to gather her in a hug, which she returned fiercely. "You know I can't let him off too easily, though," he told her. "This is my little girl's future we're talking about."

"Oh, Dad," she said, drawing away and shaking her head at him. "You'd better not pull any Head Auror nonsense."

"Who, me?" he asked, all innocence.

She gave him a look. "Just because you _can_ have him investigated doesn't mean you _should_." She swung her gaze to Al. "And don't you get any ideas, either."

Al smiled beatifically.

Lily huffed out a sigh. "It'll be a wonder if the man still _wants_ to marry me after he comes face-to-face with you lot."

Harry laughed in spite of the ache in his chest, Ginny's absence at this important moment an almost palpable loss. Suppressing the thought, he slung an arm around his youngest's shoulders and pressed a kiss to the coppery crown of her head. She turned her face into his shoulder and clung, his little girl again and always.

*

Monday morning was a bitch, as always, and made worse by the way Harry's mind kept dancing back to the seemingly unavoidable subject of Lily's possibly impending nuptials. 

Following Lily's announcement, he'd waited until the boys had left before sitting her down for a straightforward talk. "Lily," he'd said. "I know you're an adult, and I know you've always been very smart. But are you absolutely certain this is the right thing to do?"

"I know it's sudden," she said.

"Damned right it is," he agreed. "You never even told us you were dating someone."

She'd blushed a little at that. "I wasn't sure we were, at first. We were just, you know, friendly, and I thought maybe it was simply that we both were lonely and needed a familiar face. And when it became more obvious that we were serious about each other, I was reluctant to say anything because I know how you and everyone else feel about the Malfoys. But, Dad," she said, her voice and expression earnest, "he's so sweet, so smart. He's not who you think he is. He isn't his grandfather."

"Are you certain?" Harry asked gently. "You've known him for so little time."

"I've known him since I was eleven years old," she pointed out. "I've been dating him for close to a year. And, yes, Dad, I'm certain. I mean." She paused and frowned, looking thoughtful. "Mum told me once that she knew the first time she set eyes on you that you were the man she'd marry someday. It wasn't like that with me and Scorp."

"Lil..." Harry said.

She shook her head. "No, I'm not saying that's bad. Most people don't have what you and Mum had. For you, it was like a fairy tale, something out of a storybook. The first time I met Scorpius, he pulled my hair on the train." She laughed a little, but Harry could see the sheen of tears in her eyes that talking about Ginny had caused. "But we're grown up now. And it's not like you and Mum—it couldn't possibly be—but we have our own sort of magic together." Her smile grew until her face was shining with it. "He loves me, Dad. I know it. And I love him. And we want to be together." She reached over and seized his hand in one of hers. "I love him so much, Dad. It scares me a little. But it makes me so happy at the same time. Is that how it's supposed to be?"

Harry remembered his and Ginny's wedding, standing face to face in front of their gathered family and friends, promising to love, honor, and cherish one another. He remembered that terrifying feeling of being on the edge of a precipice, of taking a leap of faith. But they'd been taking the leap together, and nothing could have felt more right.

"Yes," he told his daughter, curling his fingers around hers. "That's exactly how it's supposed to be."

Immediately afterward, he'd penned a brief invitation to tea the following weekend and Owled it, heart in his throat, to Scorpius Malfoy. 

Then he'd gritted his teeth and Owled one, as well, to Scorpius's father.

Other than his unfortunate family origins, Harry knew little about the boy—young man, rather. He'd seen Scorpius alongside his father on the Hogwarts Express platform every year, their blond heads and narrow features so alike, yet the boy's eyes lacking the shadows that marked the senior Malfoy—and so many of Harry's generation—as one who had seen the horrors of the last Voldemort war. It wasn't that Harry had consciously looked for the little knot of Malfoys—the tall, pale father, eyes wary and hair thinning as the years progressed; the solemn, flaxen-haired boy who'd seemed so careful to mimic his father's posture and expression; the dark-haired, pale-complected mother who'd smoothed the boy's tie and hair with brisk fingers and an absent air, and who had disappeared from the family portrait at some point around Al and Scorpius's fifth year—but rather that Harry couldn't help but notice them there, a constant presence on the fringes of his life, woven into the fabric of his existence as much as Ginny, Ron, Hermione, and the rest of his extended family, although lending a different color and texture. When he'd returned to Platform 9-3/4 to see Lily off for her sixth year at Hogwarts, it had been almost a surprise not to glimpse the pale-blond figures he'd grown so accustomed to.

Sighing in frustration, Harry pushed aside most of the stack of parchment and memos that had seemed to multiply over the weekend and pulled only what was essential for his weekly mid-morning meeting with his lead Aurors, who filed into Harry's office precisely on time. Time to concentrate on his job, damn it, and leave this Malfoy matter for after hours.

The meeting was the usual rundown of the most pressing cases facing the Auror Office and the progress that had been made on each: flare-ups of neo-Death Eater activity in the Lake District; a double murder near Bath in which traces of Dark Magic had been found on site; the increased trafficking of a dangerous and highly illegal potion nicknamed Mneme for its memory-enhancing—or, worse, memory-rewriting—properties, prized by the criminal underclass for its reported ability to thwart the influence of Veritaserum, and thus hamper Auror questioning of both suspects and witnesses. There'd been a surge in Mneme-related crime in Britain over the last year or so—thieves and murderers dosing themselves with it before being arrested by the Aurors, a serial rapist who'd been slipping it to his victims, even the strange, sad case the previous year of a man who'd fed the potion to his grandfather, an elderly wizard with a memory disorder similar to what Muggles knew as Alzheimer's. Instead of curing the man, however, the Mneme had erased his memories entirely, and he'd died frightened and desperate, a virtual blank slate.

"We have a new lead in the Mneme situation," Ariadne Endsworth told him brusquely. She was a 35-year veteran of the Auror corps, outlasting even Harry himself, and she'd been spearheading the Mneme case for months with her trademark single-minded diligence. Harry waved his quill at her in a gesture to continue. "Two members of my team—Earnshaw and MacNeill—have isolated a suspect we think may be at least one player in this whole bloody mess," she said, "an employee of one of the smaller potions research labs who we've confirmed has been making inquiries about Mneme abroad. Bloke by the name of Scorpius Malfoy."

Harry dropped his quill.

"Thought that name might get your attention," she said with a smirk. "And, yes, he _is_ the son and grandson of the two Death Eater Malfoys. His father, Draco Malfoy, has been implicated, too. Seems Scorpius and, somewhat less frequently, his father have traveled numerous times to Egypt this past year and have been seen consorting with known producers of Mneme in Cairo and Alexandria. Scorpius Malfoy just returned a few days ago from his latest foray, and he spent most of his time there in the company of two of the biggest Mneme producers in Egypt."

Harry pressed a hand against the reassuring wood of his desktop, his mind racing. "Do you have any proof that they've been importing it?" he asked.

"No," she said, "but we're working on that. MacNeill went undercover last week, attempting to get hired on at the potions lab to get closer to the Malfoys—the father works there too, you see—but it's privately owned and apparently very hush-hush in its operations, and she couldn't even get past the first-round gatekeeper. Light Enterprises, it's called—ha! Shadowy is more like it."

Harry frowned and held out a hand for her to pass him the file. He flipped through it, eyes skimming over the information it contained. Light Enterprises, founded in 2003. Headquartered in London. Producers of several advanced potions that had revolutionized treatment for various magical maladies, including nerve damage arising from prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse as well as previously irremovable curse scars. 

He absently trailed a finger across his forehead, deep in thought. According to the notes in the file, Ariadne's team had been pursuing the Scorpius connection for several months as one of any number of possible leads. But, he had to admit, the boy's most recent activities looked damning on parchment. Why the preoccupation with such a dangerous substance? Was it possible the timing of his inquiries had been a mere coincidence?

"Let me look into this," Harry said, almost before the thought had fully formed.

Ariadne blinked at him. "Sir?"

He ran his thumb along the edge of the file and frowned, not quite looking at Ariadne. "I may have an opportunity soon to—get closer to the Malfoys."

"Harry—" she said, and he lifted his gaze to meet hers. He'd seen his daughter's name in the file, knew that Ariadne knew there was some connection between her and Scorpius, if not exactly what. But if Ariadne had any suspicion that Lily was involved, she wouldn't have hesitated to say so. And the fact was, as things stood he was better positioned than anyone else in the department to find out just what was going on with the Malfoys.

"Keep investigating your other leads," he said. "I'm taking over this one until further notice."

*

Opening the door to find Draco Malfoy on the front stoop was something of a surreal experience.

Malfoy blinked at him, looking almost as unnerved as Harry felt. "Potter," he drawled, straightening his spine and drawing back his shoulders. Malfoy was still tall, still pointy and pale, all the more dramatically so set as he was against the riotous backdrop of autumn colors that blazed across the trees. 

Next to Malfoy stood a younger, handsomer version of himself, with the same platinum hair but a softer, kinder face that curved into a warm smile as he greeted Harry. "Mr. Potter. Thank you so much for inviting us."

Harry stepped back to allow the two of them to enter the foyer and shook the young man's proffered hand, catching an inexplicable flash of resentment in the elder Malfoy's eyes as he did so. Feeling strangely put at ease by this small indication of how little things had changed between them despite the intervening years, Harry made a point of offering his own hand to Malfoy, who cast the hand a deeply suspicious glance. Then, scowling, he took it, squeezing just a little too hard, as Harry had somehow known he would. Feeling a touch of genuine amusement, Harry smiled. "Welcome to my home, Malfoy."

Malfoy's hand held his a few moments too long as the other man's gaze bored into Harry's. Then, to Harry's surprise, he said, simply, "Thank you," and let go, following his son.

Harry closed the door.

*

Lily greeted Scorpius with an unladylike whoop and a pounce that reminded Harry, achingly, of her mother. Scorpius only laughed and hugged her briefly, then decorously stepped away, clearly conscious of parental eyes even if Lily didn't seem to be. Undaunted, Lily slung an arm around Scorpius's waist and beamed at Harry and Malfoy as they stood in the doorway. Harry couldn't help but notice the fond but faintly dazed smile Scorpius directed at the top of her head, the look of a man who couldn't believe his own good fortune. Harry knew the expression well—it was one he'd seen on his own face in many of his and Ginny's wedding photos.

It appeared that Scorpius's affection for Lily, at least, was genuine. Harry cast a sidelong glance at Malfoy, who stood stiffly next to Harry, his own expression blank. If the Malfoys _were_ involved in criminal activity, perhaps the elder was the mastermind and the younger merely an innocent dupe in his father's nefarious plot. Watching Scorpius's smile widen into a grin as Lily twined his fingers with hers, while Malfoy's expression remained unchanged, Harry devoutly began to hope that was the case.

Lily perched next to Scorpius over tea, constantly reaching to touch his arm or hand, brushing her fingers against the short, neat strands of his hair, leaning her shoulder into him as she laughed. Scorpius was more reserved, though very obviously not unfeeling—though he didn't claim ownership with small touches the way Lily did, he seemed to glow in the light of her affection. It hurt Harry a little to watch them—for one thing, it had been so long since he'd had that kind of affection for himself; for another, if it turned out that Scorpius was knowingly involved in illegal activity, there was the very real likelihood that two hearts would be broken by separating the pair of them.

Draco Malfoy, by contrast, merely sipped his tea, his expression revealing nothing.

"Lily tells me you met in Egypt," Harry remarked to Scorpius.

The young man nodded. "Yes, sir. I was traveling through the region for work, and we encountered each other in Cairo's Wizarding district. We recognized each other right off, of course."

"Ah," Harry said. "For work, you say? What is it you do?"

"I work in research and development for a small potions laboratory," Scorpius replied, seemingly without artifice. "I've been doing a lot of traveling for one of our projects, but..."—a slight blush stole across his pale cheeks as Lily wrapped one of his hands in both of hers—"...I think that will be coming to a close very soon."

"You've completed the project?" Harry prodded. From the corner of his eye, he could see Draco Malfoy's gaze sharpen on him.

"No, sir," Scorpius said, "just this stage of it. I wish I could tell you more, as it's really quite exciting, and I'm very hopeful about the outcome, but it's proprietary information, you understand."

"Of course," Harry said, his gaze swinging to meet that of the elder Malfoy, who was frowning slightly. When Harry turned to him, Malfoy schooled his face back to blankness. Mentally, Harry gritted his teeth, but outwardly he smiled. "And what is it you're doing these days, Malfoy? It's been a long while since we've spoken."

"Too long," Malfoy replied dryly and with utter insincerity. "Scorpius and I work together, actually. He's been training with me for the last several years."

"A family business, is it?" Harry asked, his tone innocent.

Scorpius began to respond, but Malfoy spoke over him. "Not as such," he replied. "Just—a shared interest in using potions for the good of wizardkind." He held Harry's gaze over the rim of his teacup, eyes challenging. Harry felt his heart start to pound the way it always did before a good wandfight in the field—the way it always had before a fistfight with Malfoy back in school. If Malfoy was involved in the Mneme situation, Harry was going to enjoy seeing him go down.

Before Harry could seize the chance to follow up, though, Lily brought the conversation around to wedding plans. 

"I do hope we can keep the guest list small," she said, and Harry could tell by the sad light in her eyes that she was thinking of Ginny's funeral, which had turned into a crush in spite of the family's wishes that they be allowed to grieve in privacy. But for all that nearly 30 years had passed since the end of the war, Wizarding Britain had still been fascinated enough by its grown-up boy savior to ignore his plea for privacy in which to mourn, just so they could view the spectacle of his grief.

"We could hold the wedding here," Harry said, thinking of his and Ginny's wedding under the brilliant blue sky at the Burrow—nothing could have meant more to her, Ginny had said, than to be married to her true love on the grounds of her childhood home.

Lily glanced around the room, love for the house clear in her expression, but a frown etching her forehead. "I would love to, Dad. I just don't know if there's enough room, given we'd like to be married around Christmastime. In a couple of months, it'll be too cold for an outdoor wedding, even with warming charms."

"This Christmas?" Harry asked, surprised, and his heart clenched when she nodded. He'd assumed the wedding would take place sometime next year at the earliest—that there would be more time for his investigation. As it was, this left him a bare two months. How were they ever to organize a wedding in that time? And how could he possibly have enough time to get to know this pale young man who'd laid claim to his daughter's heart before he took Lily away forever?

Another thought struck in quick succession. "Are you pregnant?"

Her cheeks flamed. "Dad! No!"

"It's a perfectly reasonable question," he said, embarrassed himself at having asked it. "You get married quickly, people will assume."

"Let them," she said defiantly. "I don't care what everyone else thinks. I only know that Scorp and I want to be married, and there's no point in dallying about it." Her bravado faltered a little as she continued, voice softer, "After all, there's no telling how much time any of us has. Why waste it?" Her eyes met Harry's, and he knew they both were thinking of Ginny, and of how very suddenly they'd lost her.

In the silence, Malfoy cleared his throat. "There is, of course, the Manor to consider." Harry turned to glare at him, but Malfoy pointedly ignored the look. "We have ample space—plenty of rooms to choose among—and, naturally, a fleet of house-elves to tend to your guests, no matter how large or small the guest list." At Harry's scowl, he quirked an amused eyebrow. "Duly compensated for their services, I assure you, Potter, in line with Granger's little reforms. Never let it be said that the inhabitants of Malfoy Manor hold themselves above the law." Irony was heavy in his voice.

Scorpius turned to Lily with an excited light in his eyes. "Oh, Lil, you'd love the ballroom—big, floor-to-ceiling windows, an enchanted ceiling like the Great Hall at Hogwarts—you could feel as though you're being married under the kiss of snowflakes." His cheeks flushed again at this burst of romanticism, and Harry found himself unwillingly more and more charmed by Lily's fiancé.

Lily's face lit up, the shadows of remembered grief fading. "Could I see it?"

"Perhaps you and your father would allow us to return the favor by joining us for tea at the Manor tomorrow afternoon?" Malfoy drawled. "Scorpius and I would be happy to give you a tour and see if anything strikes your fancy."

"Oh, yes," Lily said. "Thank you. Although—" She turned to Harry. "Dad, if you're busy, that's—"

"No, no," he said. "Of course not." His eyes were on Malfoy as he added, "I'll be happy to join you."

"Splendid," Malfoy replied, his tone implying the situation was anything but.

Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at Malfoy's obvious rudeness, wondering if he'd be able to make it through an afternoon on Malfoy's home turf without throttling the man. But he couldn't pass up the opportunity this might afford him to explore the Manor. Plus, his daughter was beaming at the prospect, and damned if he was going to leave her to fend for herself in Malfoy territory.

"Splendid," Harry echoed with a big, false smile. "It's a date."

*

The next day, Harry and Lily Apparated together to the gates of Malfoy Manor. The gates were the same as Harry remembered from the first and, thankfully, only time he'd been there previously, the wrought iron rising tall and forbiddingly before them, the bars contorting into a strange and inhuman face at their approach. "State your purpose!" the face thundered.

Lily lifted her chin. "I am Scorpius Malfoy's fiancée, and this is my father, Harry Potter."

The gates swung open to admit them, and they continued up the walk, gravel crunching beneath their heels.

Against an ominous October sky, the Manor seemed cloaked in shadow. Tall windows stared like unseeing eyes from the Manor's stately facade. Harry's stomach twisted as he remembered the sight of those windows lit up against the night, beacons into an unknown hell. As though sensing his mood, Lily looped her arm through his as they climbed the wide, stone steps. But having no such bad memories of her own to contend with, her eyes shone with excitement.

The door swung open as they approached, held, Harry saw once they'd entered, by a smartly uniformed house-elf. "Miss Lily Potter and Mister Harry Potter will be following Potsy, please," it squeaked, closing the door and leading them into the hallway.

The portraits Harry recalled lining the walls on his prior, unwilling visit were gone. In fact, the interior of the Manor seemed to have undergone a wholesale transformation, the dark walls and carpeting that had added to the feeling of being closed in and under threat no longer in evidence. The changes were even more apparent when they entered the drawing room, where the Malfoys awaited. Only the ornate marble fireplace was as Harry recalled it; gone were the mirror, the portraits, the imposing purple walls, all replaced with lighter furnishings that made the room seem airy and inviting, rather than dark and forbidding. Not even a trace of the old chandelier remained.

Malfoy rose from the depths of a comfortable-looking armchair as Lily and Harry entered, greeting the two of them politely. Harry caught Malfoy watching him with an indefinable expression once Harry's gaze had finished roaming the room, and he could tell by the tightness of Malfoy's mouth that he, too, was recalling that terrible night.

"Welcome to my home, Potter," he said, and there was a strange and wholly unexpected note of apology in his tone.

"Thanks," Harry said, unable to bring himself to lie and say it was a pleasure to be there. Instead, he let Lily enthuse about the beauty of the house and its surroundings.

Scorpius clasped her hand and grinned, clearly pleased that his family's home had found favor in her eyes. 

"Shall we take a quick stroll first, so that you might see the ballroom and some more of the house," Malfoy said, "then discuss over tea?"

"Please," Lily said, the excited expression she'd worn en route still in evidence.

Scorpius beamed in return and took her arm. Harry lagged behind, stuck with Malfoy, neither pretending to be particularly happy with the situation.

Harry mentally mapped the layout of the Manor as they walked, attempting to commit it to memory should he have the opportunity to search later. Scorpius led the way through ornate hallways, past expensively furnished rooms, to the ballroom he'd described over tea the previous day, which even Harry had to confess was stunning to behold: Dozens of tall windows on three sides looked out on rolling hills flanked by an expanse of trees blazing with fall color. Overhead, in place of an ordinary ceiling, a leaden sky hung, mirroring the one outside.

"It's customizable," Scorpius said. With a few words and a flick of his wand, the clouds cleared and the four of them were bathed in brilliant sunlight. Another flick and a few more words, and heavy white clouds floated into view and began sprinkling snowflakes, sparkling in the sunlight, into the air above their heads.

Lily gasped at the spectacle, rapt face aimed toward the heavens. "Oh," she said. "Oh, yes, yes, this has to be it." She turned to Malfoy. "If that's all right with you, of course, sir. We don't want to intrude."

"This is Scorpius's home," Malfoy said, a little stiffly. "No matter whether he lives in Scotland or London or Cairo—this is, and always, will be, his home. And so you soon should consider it your home as well."

Lily stepped toward Malfoy and leaned up on her toes to kiss his cheek. "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy," she said.

He waved away her thanks, cheek flaming a rosy pink where she'd kissed him. Harry stared, fascinated by this sign of discomfiture. "You may call me Draco," Malfoy said, not quite looking at her. "We're to be family soon, after all."

She smiled, and when Scorpius caught her hand in both of his, she turned that glowing face to him, then reached up and kissed him square on the mouth. This time, Scorpius didn't step back from her in awareness of their audience.

Harry looked away, a bit embarrassed by the display, and was startled when a hand touched his shoulder. "Come on, Potter," Malfoy murmured. "Let's give them a few minutes, shall we?" When Harry hesitated, Malfoy's fingers curled tighter onto his shoulder. "You remember what it's like to be young and in love, don't you?" he drawled.

Harry's eyes met Malfoy's, which were faintly mocking. "Don't we all, though?" Harry said.

"Not necessarily," Malfoy replied curtly, and nudged Harry toward the doorway.

Once they were out in the hallway again, Malfoy led him around the corner and several doors down into a dark-paneled study lined with books and furnished with imposing furniture in gleaming dark wood and leather. "Have a seat, Potter," Malfoy said, falling gracefully into the chair behind the room's most impressive feature, a massive wooden desk. It lent an undeniable air of authority that rankled Harry as he took a seat in front of it, feeling like an errant schoolboy being called to task before the headmaster—no doubt precisely Malfoy's intention.

"What's your game, Malfoy?" Harry asked before Malfoy could assume control of the conversation.

Malfoy spread his hands in innocence. "I don't know what you possibly could mean, Potter."

"Being kind to my daughter, inviting us for tea, offering to host a bloody wedding in your house—that's not the Malfoy I know."

Malfoy's eyes glinted with anger. "And you know me so well, don't you, Potter? Bosom friends for the last forty years, that's us. When was the last time we'd exchanged more than a word or two with each other before this weekend? A shouting match in the headmistress's office nearly a decade ago? Don't you dare sit there and pretend you know me."

"Right," Harry said. "So I'm supposed to believe you're doing all this out of the kindness of your heart?"

"Is it really so hard for you to believe I might love my son and wish for him to be happy?" Malfoy's tone was cold. "Certainly I might wish him to align himself with a woman of better family connections"—his eyes glittered with scorn—"but the fact remains that he loves _your_ daughter and seems determined to marry her. And in spite of her unfortunate parentage, I find I actually like the girl, which is more than I can say when it comes to certain _other_ Potters."

Harry narrowed his eyes at Malfoy, considering. His indignation seemed real enough—he appeared genuinely affronted that Harry would think him capable of ill intent when it involved his son's future. Something about Malfoy's face just then reminded him viscerally of Narcissa's on the night of the Battle of Hogwarts, after she had found her son and she and Lucius clung to him in the Great Hall, and he found himself backing down, settling into his chair and curling his fingers into the arms' rich leather.

"Lily is very like her mother," he said by way of a peace offering.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Because I'm _so_ much more pleased with the Weasley side of the equation."

Harry refused to take the bait, instead eyeing Malfoy speculatively. "I thought your family went in for arranged marriages."

Malfoy lifted an eyebrow. "And that worked out so well for me."

"Ah," Harry said, a little sheepishly. "Right. Was it divorce? I can barely remember now."

"Nice to know I've made such an impression on you over the years," Malfoy said, and beneath the flip tone Harry could detect real resentment. It shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did—after all, hadn't half of Malfoy's ill-fated schoolboy schemes ultimately been attempts to get Harry to notice him and to recognize him as an equal? "Yes, we divorced," Malfoy said. "There were—certain aspects of our life together that she was unwilling or unable to handle any longer, so we came to a mutually advantageous arrangement. She gets to live out the rest of her days in the south of France, and I got my son."

"Wasn't that hard on Scorpius, though?" Harry asked, genuinely curious. "I mean, I remember vaguely when your wife left—the kids were still in school. All of my children had left Hogwarts by the time Ginny...had her accident—but even so, it was extraordinarily difficult for them. I know death and divorce are hardly the same thing, but Scorpius was so young..."

"Astoria was never a particularly attentive mother," Malfoy said, brushing a bit of lint from the sleeve of his robes and not looking at Harry. "There wasn't much for Scorpius to miss. She almost never visits and rarely Owls, and we're both content with that arrangement."

"It's so rare for old Wizarding families to divorce, though," Harry said. "I can't imagine your parents were happy when—"

Malfoy's head snapped up at that with a glare. "I'll ask you to please leave my parents out of this discussion."

"OK," Harry said, lifting his palms. "Sorry, I didn't realize that was a touchy subject."

"There's a lot you don't realize, Potter," Malfoy said.

A knock on the doorframe drew their attention, and Harry turned to find Lily and Scorpius, hand-in-hand, peeking into the room. "Oh, good, we've found you," Lily said. "Scorp was afraid you two might have dragged each other off for a fistfight somewhere." 

"We're saving that for the reception," Malfoy replied.

Harry blinked, surprised at the wry tone. "We're to be the entertainment," he added, unable to resist. "Save you the cost of hiring a band."

Lily laughed, the sound like music. "Oh, Dad," she said, pulling Scorpius into the room, toward the chair next to Harry's, then perching on the arm next to her fiancé.

"You have such a beautiful home, Mr. Malfoy—Draco, I mean," she corrected herself, Scorpius's hand held on her lap between her palms, her thumb softly stroking. On her left hand sparkled a ring that hadn't been there earlier—a glimmering splash of diamonds and emeralds that glowed with surprising fire against her pale skin.

"Thank you," Malfoy said modestly, turning to address her and very much not looking at Harry. "It's been—changed somewhat since I was a boy, necessarily so. My mother oversaw a lot of the remodeling and redecoration after the war." Harry could see Scorpius's fingers curl around Lily's, and knew the unmentioned _Death Eaters_ had been heard by more than just himself. Lily patted Scorpius's hand fondly, and the ring caught the light. "My mother's ring," Malfoy said, surprise seeming to jerk the words out of him against his will.

"Grandmother gave it to me," Scorpius said, his eyes meeting his father's as some sort of indecipherable message passed between them. "When I told her I'd met the woman I was going to marry, she took off the ring and gave it to me. She wouldn't even consider letting me give it back to her."

Lily's expression was anxious as she glanced back and forth between the Malfoys. "Is something wrong? I don't want to—"

"No, no," Malfoy said, seeming to recover his composure. "It's only—I've never seen it anywhere but on my mother's hand. It belonged to her grandmother—it's a Black family heirloom." He met Lily's eyes and attempted a smile, though only managed to look a little sad. "It becomes you," he said.

Lily's fingers twined with Scorpius's. "Will I have a chance to meet Mrs. Malfoy?" she asked. "Scorp tells such wonderful stories about her, I've been eager to make her acquaintance."

Scorpius opened his mouth to reply, but Malfoy spoke over him, meeting his son's eyes with a pointed look. "Perhaps," he said. "But not right now. My mother's schedule is somewhat unpredictable."

"Please give her my best," Harry said, unable to resist the urge to mention a subject Malfoy had forbidden to him, but also genuinely meaning his words. He'd never forgotten what he owed Narcissa Malfoy, although he had returned the favor by testifying at the trials of both Malfoy men. It was perhaps primarily Harry's presence that had spared the Malfoys the long sentences in Azkaban that had been imposed on so many of their Death Eater peers—and which, at least in Lucius Malfoy's case, Harry was convinced the man richly deserved. But Narcissa had written to Harry and asked for his assistance, and he had found himself unable to refuse.

If Malfoy had felt any gratitude for Harry's efforts on his behalf—whether in the courtroom or in saving Malfoy's hide twice the night of Voldemort's downfall—he'd expressed it merely by leaving Harry well enough alone for the last thirty-plus years, which was not a gift horse Harry was about to look in the mouth.

"I will be sure to mention it to her," Malfoy said, his mouth a thin line.

They returned to the drawing room for tea and to discuss plans for the wedding. Small but elegant was Lily's wish, and Scorpius agreed—they'd hold both the ceremony and the reception in the ballroom, with no more than the Malfoys' usual holiday decorations, which, judging by Scorpius's effusive description, already were more ornate than most Wizarding families even bothered to attempt. Lily and Scorpius would draw up the guest list over the next week so invitations could be Owled soon. Malfoy's apparent army of house-elves would take care of the preparations at the Manor, and he wouldn't think of accepting a knut in compensation from Harry, Lily, or Scorpius.

"I'll help you oversee the preparations, then," Harry insisted. "There's no way I'm letting you take all this on yourself."

"So eager to spend time in my home, are you, Potter?" Malfoy smirked, and Harry manfully resisted the urge to respond to the taunt. It was, after all, true enough.

"Maybe we should have a small engagement party," Lily said, frowning. "To help people start to get used to the idea of me and Scorp before the wedding. Just family, you know. So they can meet him and see how wonderful he is." She smiled, but her eyes were anxious and her fingers clung to Scorpius's. Most of the family knew—James and Al, rabid gossips that they apparently were, had spread the word far and wide before Lily had had a chance to do so herself. Most of the Weasleys had been conspicuously silent, however. So far only Rose had Owled Lily a note of congratulations, noting that she'd "always thought Scorp Malfoy was pretty fit." 

Even Ron and Hermione hadn't offered felicitations, and when Harry had stopped by Hermione's office at the Ministry last week, she'd blinked at him in surprise. "It's true?" she'd asked. "I thought for certain the boys were having us on."

"It's true," Harry had told her with a sigh. "Strange though it sounds."

Hermione had pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. "Well, he can't be _too_ much like his father. I seem to recall Rose rather liked him."

"So I've heard," Harry had replied dryly.

Now Harry considered the situation before them. Lily seemed determined to go through with this, and if by chance it turned out that Scorpius was entirely in the clear, he wanted to smooth the path for her. He'd never been able to deny her anything she truly wanted. It was only through Ginny's gentle intervention and Lily's innately generous nature that she'd grown up as unspoiled as she was.

"What if we held something for the two of you at the house?" Harry suggested. "Mostly for family, and a few friends if you like." He turned to Malfoy, who watched him with an inscrutable expression. "You'd be welcome, too, of course," he said, the words bitter on his tongue even after their brief moment of accord, "and anyone you'd like to invite."

"Allowing me to form a barricade against the onslaught of Weasleys?" Malfoy replied with a smirk. "As though I'd inflict that on anyone I cared for any sooner than is absolutely necessary." When Harry opened his mouth to snap a reply, Malfoy held up a hand. "Don't bother. I'd rather address any objections among my friends personally. You may find the Weasleys are most controllable in herd formation, but my connections tend to be more amenable to being reasoned with one-on-one."

Harry gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to snarl. Again.

"Dad, are you sure?" Lily was frowning "You're always so busy with work—I don't want to take you away from anything that needs your attention."

"I've been thinking of taking some time off," he told her, hating the lie. "There's nothing more important for me to focus on than this wedding. After all, a man's little girl only gets married once." Merlin willing, if this case panned out in Scorpius's favor.

"Thank you, Dad." She glowed. "We'll keep it small, of course."

"And I'll help out," Malfoy added. When Harry turned to him, eyes narrowed in scorn and disbelief, Malfoy smirked. "If you're helping me to coordinate the wedding, it's the _least_ I can do."

"Excellent," Scorpius said, and there was a curiously speculative look in his eye as he watched his father. "I just hope your family are willing to accept me, Lil."

"They will," she said, and her tone added, _Or there'll be hell to pay._ "Once everyone sees for themselves that Dad's on board, it'll be fine."

"Uh," Harry said, "Lily, just so you know, people don't just blindly follow my lead..."

Three faces turned to him with identical _yeah, right_ expressions. Malfoy actually snorted in derision.

"They don't," Harry insisted, meeting Malfoy's eyes and thinking of their sixth year at Hogwarts, of following him through dim corridors without any support from his supposed best friends. " _You_ certainly never did," he pointed out.

Malfoy managed to look both arch and smug. "And don't you forget it, Potter."

"Like I could," Harry muttered.

At that, Malfoy simply looked pleased.

*

Within two weeks, the wedding and engagement party invitations had gone out, and many of the wedding plans were set in place. Harry had arranged to take a two-month-long "vacation" from the Ministry to focus on the Malfoy case, easily explained away to others as his desire to ensure a happy wedding for his beloved daughter. 

There'd been less public outcry than he'd expected when word got out that Lily Potter was officially engaged to the Malfoy scion. The Malfoys apparently had kept quiet in society for a long time; it seemed it wasn't simply that Malfoy had been avoiding Harry. They kept to themselves, but continued to make hefty donations to causes that were close to the hearts of many in Wizarding society, like various wings of St. Mungo's and Hogwarts scholarship programs. Blatant pandering, as Harry saw it. But even Neville, who'd Owled when he heard the news about Lily and Scorpius, didn't fall back on old hatreds; to Harry's surprise, he wrote of Malfoy with guarded approval, noting the man's involvement with Light Enterprises, which had produced the potion that finally brought Neville's parents back to some semblance of normalcy after years on the Closed Ward. Though they'd never be the people they'd been before the first war, they recognized Neville now and were able to function outside the hospital, although not without help. If Malfoy'd had any role in that miracle, Neville wrote, there was much he was willing to forgive the man.

Neville'd also offered words of praise for Scorpius, who'd been one of his students some years past. Diligent, Neville recalled, whip-smart and studious, genuinely interested in Herbology, though mostly due to its importance in Potions. A little arrogant in certain company, Neville admitted, but mostly as a defense mechanism, he thought; if anything, he noted, Harry's boys and others had been the instigators.

Others Harry encountered who'd known Scorpius Malfoy in school remembered him as rather spoiled and sure of himself, but many insisted he'd matured a lot since he'd left Hogwarts and had grown out of that. Those who only knew the Malfoys through their role in the war tended to be more guarded. But in the decades since the time of Voldemort, Wizarding Britain had changed—the old scars weren't so fresh, and adults who had grown up in an era of hate and fear seemed willing to give the benefit of the doubt to a family who'd stopped flaunting their wealth and connections and seemed to have learned from their mistakes. By and large, the news of the match was met with tentative approval, and little could have surprised Harry more.

This tide of acceptance, however, didn't make it any easier to deal with Malfoy as the planning began to take shape.

Harry had spent numerous hours at the Manor over the last two weeks. Malfoy had charmed the gate to recognize both Lily and himself, so they were able to come and go freely, albeit only when Malfoy was at home. It struck Harry at first as a surprising gesture of trust, but when all Malfoy had allowed Harry to do was supervise house-elves as they measured and decorated, he realized "trust" was hardly foremost in Malfoy's mind when it came to him. He knew Malfoy was trying to discourage him from coming over at all, but damned if Harry was going to give him the satisfaction.

Malfoy, in turn, had made a nuisance of himself at Harry's house as Harry readied it for the engagement party. Not owning a house-elf himself—Kreacher having long ago passed on and finally had his head mounted among his peers at Grimmauld Place—all of the charms and other preparation fell on Harry's shoulders. Rather than pitch in with cleaning, levitating, or cooking spells, however, Malfoy settled himself into a chair to "supervise," as he announced, further rubbing in his apparent conviction that Harry was no better than a house-elf. Rather than antagonize Malfoy, however, and be forced to explain to Lily why he'd kicked her future father-in-law out after a blazing row, Harry merely turned his back on the man, conducting his business as needed and fighting to ignore the awareness of Malfoy's strangely heavy gaze on him as he toiled.

The night of the party, Malfoy arrived early, clad in impeccable charcoal-gray dress robes and bearing a bottle of undoubtedly expensive wine from some elite French Wizarding winery. "This isn't for your 'guests,'" he said, the quotation marks around the final word clear in his tone. "This is for us to start out the evening, before whatever swill you've no doubt stocked your cellar with starts flowing."

"Thanks, Malfoy," Harry replied, just barely managing not to roll his eyes. "You're too kind."

"This is true," Malfoy said, setting the wine on the kitchen counter and uncorking it with a flourish of his wand. It wasn't, Harry noticed, the wand Harry had taken from him so long ago, the one Harry had wielded against Voldemort in that final, climactic battle; that one Harry had wanted to return to Malfoy, but the Ministry had seized it in order to "study" it, they claimed. Harry had never received it back, and he doubted Malfoy had ever seen it again.

Malfoy turned back to him, each hand bearing a glass of richly gleaming red wine. Harry accepted his, and Malfoy touched his glass briefly to Harry's. "To our children's future happiness," he said.

"To Lily and Scorpius," Harry agreed, and drank. The wine felt like velvet against his tongue—impossibly warm and lush and deep. He closed his eyes to savor it, and when he opened them, Malfoy was watching him, an inscrutable expression on his face. "What?" Harry asked.

Malfoy shook his head, as though to clear it. "Nothing," he said. "You like it?"

"It's amazing," Harry admitted, stepping toward the counter to get a better look at the label. He nearly staggered when he saw the date. "Malfoy, this stuff's nearly 200 years old!"

Malfoy shrugged, taking another sip. "The Manor has an excellent wine cellar, and of course Wizarding wine preservation techniques are far superior to anything your Muggles could concoct. Besides," he said with a smirk, "that year represents the last time a Malfoy and a Potter married."

Harry blinked at him. "You looked it up?"

"I was curious," Malfoy said. Standing next to him like this, Harry was aware of Malfoy's height, and of the warmth and breadth of him under his elegant robes. This close, he could tell that Malfoy's hair was no longer solely the silvery blond of his youth, but woven with strands of pure white that told the story of his age as much as the shadows that lurked in those mocking gray eyes. Malfoy's robe was open at the collar to reveal a slice of pale, unblemished skin at his throat. When Malfoy turned to face him more fully, propping an arm against the countertop, Harry realized he'd been staring and very nearly blushed.

"I'm surprised," Malfoy said.

"How so?" Harry asked, unaccountably nervous.

A smirk teased at the corner of his mouth. "That you'd accept a glass from me without hesitation." He quirked an eyebrow. "Unless you performed some sort of Auror-standard wandless, wordless poison-detection spell before you drank?"

That had been phenomenally stupid of him, Harry realized. There were no witnesses here; not even Lily and Scorpius had arrived yet. Malfoy might have done anything. Somehow, though, Harry was fairly certain he hadn't. "Have you put something in the wine?" 

"No," Malfoy said, looking amused. "But it's sweet of you to ask. Almost feels like old times."

"Right," Harry said, eyeing his glass, then tipping his head back to take another deep, damning draught. When he met the other man's eyes again, Malfoy's face was still and his gaze surprisingly warm.

"Potter—" he said, and the clatter of the door in the hallway heralded Lily and Scorpius's arrival. Malfoy turned away, whatever he'd been about to say first drowned out by Lily's shout of greeting and then lost in Malfoy's own draining of his nearly full glass of 200-year-old French wine, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

After that, Malfoy managed for hours to avoid being left alone in Harry's presence. First he stuck close to Scorpius, then, once the Weasley contingent began to arrive, made himself so scarce Harry began to wonder if he'd Disapparated at some point when Harry hadn't been paying attention.

Scorpius laid on the charm with Lily's relatives as the two of them made their rounds. In a way, it called to mind his father's long-ago attempts to ingratiate himself with professors and other authority figures. The difference, though, was that Scorpius seemed to genuinely desire their good opinion, whereas Malfoy always had been after merely the advantages others could bring to him. When Harry saw even Ron laughing with real mirth at something Scorpius had said to him, Harry knew that Lily and Scorpius's mission, at least, had been accomplished.

As the evening wore on, Harry grew more and more annoyed at Malfoy's apparent disappearance. By the time the party broke up, nobody he asked reported having seen him for hours. Lily and Scorpius hadn't spoken to him since relatively early in the party, James and Al said they had been trying not to notice him at all, and Hermione last remembered seeing him speaking to Bill and Fleur not long after the two of them had arrived, which had been hours ago. Scorpius frowned a little at the mention of his father and Bill Weasley—the boy obviously knew the story behind Bill's scars—but didn't seem overly concerned by his father's absence. "He's not terribly social," he said to Harry, his tone apologetic. "Mum used to be the one who forced him out of the house. Since she left, he's been happy to stay home or work in his lab until all hours. It may be he simply had a potions breakthrough and left to pursue it immediately without telling anyone where he'd gone—he's done that before."

Harry wasn't ready to buy that explanation, though. The man had deserted his own son's engagement party without a word to anyone. So much for the upper class's so-called social graces.

He waved Lily, Scorpius, and Hermione (as well as a grimacing and obviously reluctant Ron) away when they offered to stay and help clean up, insisting that it would be easy enough to take care of himself. But as he stood over the sink, setting the washing and drying charms in place, he thought viciously of how much he'd have loved to set Malfoy on cleanup duty and watch _him_ do all the work for once.

Half lost in his thoughts of petty vengeance, Harry swung open the pantry door and nearly tripped over the figure that lay sprawled inside. It took a moment for his mind to register the sight. "Malfoy?"

The other man blinked up at him blearily, squinting in the sudden light. "Po'er?" he slurred.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" Harry demanded, taking in the three empty wine bottles at Malfoy's elbow. A thin claret-colored stain snaked a path down the front of Malfoy's robes. The man positively reeked of alcohol.

"Ha'ing a drink," Malfoy said. "Er. Sev'ral, ac'shly."

"I can see that," Harry said.

"Why'd y'ask, then?" Malfoy muttered. "Wanker."

Harry shook his head, disgusted. "I can't believe this," he said. "Draco Malfoy, drunk, in my fucking pantry."

Malfoy ignored him, concentrating as he was on attempting to stand up. He wasn't having an easy time of it. Gritting his teeth and biting back an insult, Harry reached out a hand to help him. Malfoy grasped his arm to use it as leverage and staggered to his feet. Harry took a step back to steady himself as Malfoy's weight pulled against him, and the resulting angle change put Malfoy off balance, and he fell against Harry, practically slamming him into the edge of the door frame.

"Erf," Malfoy grunted. "Sorry 'bou' that," he mumbled into Harry's ear, then didn't draw away immediately. His nose touched Harry's jaw and, pressed close as they were, Harry felt Malfoy's chest expand as he inhaled.

"Malfoy," he asked in a state of utter shock, "are you _smelling_ me?"

But that shock was nothing next to what was about to come. For although Malfoy shifted his face, it wasn't to draw away. Instead, Harry felt the distinct sensation of warm lips pressed to his neck, a rush of hot breath, the stroke of a wet tongue.

Harry took a sharp breath, knowing he should push Malfoy away, knowing they'd both regret this when Malfoy was sober—hell, knowing he should regret this more right now. But, goddamn it, it had been so long since anyone had touched him with any sort of intent. Most people were too in awe of his status in society or too fixated on him as an asexual heroic figure or still weighed down with sympathy over the very tragic and very public loss of his wife to even consider that, far from wishing not to be touched, Harry was dying for it. It had been five years since he'd been touched by anyone but himself, and the shocking wet heat against his neck and the slow slide of one of Malfoy's hands up his chest made Harry's cock leap to attention. When Malfoy's hand alighted on Harry's jaw and tilted his head, Harry opened his mouth for the kiss that followed.

Malfoy's face and body may have looked to be all hard, unforgiving angles, but his lips were soft and smooth and—perhaps literally—intoxicating, his mouth flavored with the rich taste of wine. Malfoy's tongue teased its way into Harry's mouth, and Harry sucked on it, drawing a guttural moan from Malfoy, who nudged his hips insistently into Harry's, producing utterly divine friction against Harry's erection. Gasping, he grabbed Malfoy's face with his own hands and turned the kiss into something else entirely—blind, seeking heat, the determined slide and retreat of tongues, the insistent, bruising press of teeth.

Malfoy whimpered, hands curling around Harry's back and tightening on Harry's shoulder muscles, as though afraid to let go. His mouth moved over Harry's with a sort of ruthless, seeking determination, the heat and force of it making Harry dizzy. The sharp edge of the door frame bit into his back, and the hard edges of Malfoy pressed into his front, a hot, insistent pressure against his straining muscles. His glasses pressed uncomfortably into his face, and when he lifted his hand just for a moment to remove them, the almost infinitesimal pause apparently was enough to wake Malfoy from his drunken stupor.

"Potter?" he said, sounding strangely sober, an expression of dawning horror creeping across his face. He took a sharp, sudden step backward, then was forced to grasp the other side of the door frame to keep himself from falling on legs still wobbly from drink. "Bloody buggering hell," he mumbled, closing his eyes in seeming defeat.

"Right," Harry said, pushing himself off the door frame and brushing a hand down the front of his robes, ignoring the insistent throb of his cock. "Party's over. Feel free to get the hell out anytime. Try not to splinch yourself, you stupid fuck."

Faster than Harry would have thought the man could move in his inebriated state, Malfoy latched onto Harry's sleeve with a single hand. "Wait. No. I—damn it." He rubbed his other hand against his face. "Need a Sobering Charm," he muttered.

"If I perform one on you, will you leave?"

"Yes," Malfoy said.

Harry slid out his wand and barked out the incantation. Malfoy shook his head, looking dazed as the force of the spell washed over him, but he didn't let go. Harry jerked his arm out of Malfoy's grasp. "Now get out," he said.

"No," Malfoy said.

"Should have known you'd be a fucking liar."

"Hello, _Slytherin_. Not my fault you're a stupid, trusting Gryffindor."

"Right," Harry said, feeling like an enormous jackass for ever letting Malfoy near him. From now on, he was focusing solely on the investigation. He couldn't afford to let his guard down, no matter what wedding-related shenanigans were going on around him. "You have one minute to explain what you were doing drinking in my pantry, and then get out."

Malfoy opened his mouth, then closed it, scowling. "Look, I'm sorry, all right?" he snapped. "I didn't mean to kiss you. I certainly wouldn't have had I been sober."

"That helps so much, Malfoy," Harry replied, trying—and failing—not to feel insulted. "Also, 30 seconds."

Malfoy bared his teeth in annoyance. "Fine," he said. "I couldn't handle the guilt of being in that roomful of Weasleys, all right?"

"You couldn't take it when Bill and Fleur rightfully blamed you for Bill's scars, eh?"

"No," Malfoy bit out, "I couldn't take it when they _forgave_ me for them."

Harry shut his mouth.

"I was expecting confrontation," Malfoy said. "I was prepared for that. I'll brazen it out, I told myself. Then they all had the nerve to be fucking _gracious_." He spat the word like it tasted bad. "Well, all except for _your_ pet Weasel, of course. Never thought I'd live to see the day when I was _relieved_ Ron Weasley was a prick."

"Ron's not a prick," Harry said automatically, but there was no force behind his tone. "The Weasleys set you on a drinking binge by being _nice_ to you?"

"Polite," Malfoy corrected. "Hardly nice." He paused and frowned. "Except for that one—Granger's daughter. She seemed a little _too_ nice. It had me beginning to wonder if she was up to something."

"She's a Slytherin," Harry explained.

"Ah, I wasn't wrong, then," Malfoy replied, then fell silent for a moment. "I'll just go, then," he said finally, his eyes meeting Harry's, an expression Harry couldn't quite read in them.

"OK," Harry said.

"Anti-Apparition charms?" Malfoy asked.

"Only inside the house."

"OK."

They stared at each other for another long moment. Then Malfoy shook his head slightly, as though clearing cobwebs, and turned to head toward the door. Harry followed. As Malfoy swung open the front door, he paused, turning to face Harry again. "I'm sorry about—everything," he said stiffly.

"Fine," Harry said.

"It won't happen again."

"OK."

Another pause. "All right." Then he stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him. He could hear the pop of Apparition before the door had even latched completely.

Feeling oddly empty, Harry made his way back to the kitchen. Next to the sink stood the bottle of French wine Malfoy had brought at the start of the evening. About a third of the bottle remained—apparently it had managed to escape Malfoy's binge. Closing his eyes, Harry tilted his head back and brought the bottle to his mouth, letting the last few dark, complex mouthfuls wash over his tongue, the aftertaste strangely bitter.

*

"Did you and Draco have a fight?" Lily asked over lunch in Diagon Alley several days later.

He started a little at the question, surprised as always to hear that name fall from her lips. He finished chewing his bite of roast beef to give himself a few extra moments' time to formulate a response. "Why do you ask?" he said.

She lifted an eyebrow at his non-answer. "Scorp says you haven't been to the Manor all week."

Harry scowled. "Has his father been tattling?"

Her face took on that _Merlin's balls, boys are stupid_ look he'd often seen her direct toward her brothers over the years. "No," she informed him, "in fact, Draco apparently never said a word on the subject, and he refused to answer when Scorp asked. He got wind of it from a house-elf."

Harry'd always suspected that Potsy wasn't to be trusted. Still, he sighed; he wasn't proud of himself for avoiding Malfoy, especially since it was so important that Harry try to figure out his connection with the Mneme case. He'd received an Owled update from the Auror Office this morning, informing him that two more Mneme incidents were being investigated, one of which involved a Hogwarts student accused of using the stuff to cheat on exams, and the other of which involved a petty criminal whose memory had been tampered with, according to Penseive evidence. They needed to track down the source, but it was hard when the memories of those further down the chain couldn't be relied on.

"It wasn't a fight," Harry said. "It was—a disagreement."

"Look. I don't want you to think you need to be involved in every aspect of the wedding planning," Lily told him, eyes on her plate as she toyed with her food. "I already feel guilty that you and Draco are doing so much work on our behalf. But—" She looked up, eyes narrowed. "—I also don't want you to think you need to stay away because the two of you are sulking and behaving like schoolboys. Isn't it possible for the two of you to get along, for Scorp's and my sake?"

Harry flushed a little at being dressed down by his own daughter. "There's a lot of history between the two of us," he pointed out.

"I know," she said. "I'm not asking you to marry each other, or even become friends. But I'd like for the two of you to be able to tolerate each other, so you don't end up coming to blows on my wedding day." She gave him a sharp look.

"What?" he asked.

"Scorp said his father had a bruise along his jaw," she said. "That's why we thought you might have fought."

Harry felt his chest tighten as he remembered the feel of Malfoy's skin under his palm—hot, flushed with arousal, but with tantalizing abrasion just under the surface as Harry had curled his fingers into the other man's hair, pressed his thumb into the pale skin of Malfoy's jaw to turn his face more forcefully into Harry's. He glanced down to hide the blush he could feel creeping across his cheeks and ostentatiously concentrated on picking a bit of lint from the sleeve of his robes. "No," he said. "Nothing like that. Must have done something to himself."

"Perhaps," she said, still sounding suspicious.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'll head over there this afternoon," he said. When he opened his eyes again, Lily was beaming at him.

"Thank you, Daddy," she said.

"Don't thank me yet," he said. "There's no guarantee he'll even let me through the gate."

"I'm sure you can charm him into it," she replied.

He laughed. "I hardly think Draco Malfoy is susceptible to any dubious power to charm that I might possess."

"Mum always said you were the most powerful wizard she'd ever known," Lily said with a smirk. "I have great confidence in you." And with that, she changed the subject to her latest project at work, leaving Harry stewing for the rest of the meal in dread of what the afternoon might bring.

*

After walking Lily back to Gringott's after lunch, Harry refused to allow himself to put off the inevitable and Apparated straight to Wiltshire. Somewhat to his surprise, the gate was still charmed to let him in automatically, and a beaming Potsy greeted him at the door. "Master Draco is being in the ballroom," she chirped. "Master Draco has talked of nothing but Mister Harry Potter all week."

"Is that so?" Harry murmured, following the elf down the long, bright corridors to where, sure enough, Malfoy stood in the center of the ballroom, which was beginning to take shape into a winter paradise. Non-melting icicles hung suspended in gleaming columns from arches over the ballroom's many windows, and several house-elves were occupied charming swirling patterns of artificial frost onto the glass panes. A shining white platform adorned with subtly glistening snowflake designs stood at one end of the room, marking the spot where Lily and Scorpius would exchange their vows.

When Malfoy heard Harry's footsteps approaching behind him, he turned around, his face alive for a moment with an expression of pure shock, though that quickly disappeared into a deep scowl. "Potter," he sneered. "Come to make sure the house-elves don't fail without your masterful supervision?"

"Perhaps I've come to make sure that _you_ don't," Harry retorted.

Malfoy sucked in a breath, rage etched in every line of his face. "Elves," he barked. "Out. Now."

Four house-elves Disapparated instantly, and Harry and Malfoy were left facing each other across a quarter-length of the ballroom, which Malfoy crossed with swift strides. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. His cheeks were flushed with anger, and he halted too close to Harry, hoping, no doubt, to intimidate him by invading his personal space. But Harry refused to give him the satisfaction of backing up a step.

"Helping out," Harry replied, determined to remain calm in spite of his earlier slip-up. "Just like I promised Lily I would."

"I can assure you, I have everything entirely under control."

"I'm sure you do, but it's always good to have another person around to help."

"Not when it's _you_."

Having Malfoy standing this close, with so much hostile energy pouring off him, should have reminded Harry of Hogwarts—of ill-fated encounters on the Quidditch pitch or on the Hogwarts Express. And yet as Harry glared back at Malfoy, all he could recall was that kiss after the engagement party, and how that face had looked pressed so close to his own. It was beyond disturbing; he'd never spared a lustful thought toward Draco Malfoy in his entire life until four days ago. Since then, however, he'd found himself tormented by strange, unfocused dreams filled with flashes of silver and gray and wet, tantalizing red, in which broad, strong hands touched and touched and _touched_ until Harry woke up gasping and hard and dogged by a strange, indefinable longing that persisted even after he'd shoved a hand beneath the covers and tugged himself off with a few fast and desperate strokes.

As all this flooded through him, Harry couldn't stop himself snapping in reply, "You didn't seem to mind having me around a few nights ago."

Malfoy bared his teeth and punched him squarely in the jaw.

Unprepared for the blow, Harry went down, but he recovered himself enough in the fall to swing out a leg, hard, and take Malfoy down with him. Malfoy grunted as his arse hit the floor, and Harry launched himself on top of him, knocking Malfoy back with a well-aimed swing of his own, the taste of blood vivid against his tongue.

Malfoy's head snapped to the side, and he grabbed hold of Harry and flipped him over onto his back, landing a punch in Harry's midsection. The breath wheezed out of him even as he swung for Malfoy's face again.

The brute physicality of it sang through Harry's blood, making him grin as the two of them lashed out at one another. _This_ he knew. _This_ was familiar. Malfoy's punches flew with speed and rage but little planning, while Harry drew on his Auror training to anticipate Malfoy's movements, blocking his fists where he was able and landing far more punches than he missed. Every strike of Harry's fists against his body seemed to enrage Malfoy more, driving him to hit faster, hit harder. Harry threw his weight and managed to shove Malfoy onto his back, gaining the superior position once more. 

When Malfoy swung at him, Harry caught the other man's fists in his and pressed them to the ground above Malfoy's head. Harry laughed down at him, blood dripping from his mouth and from a cut over his eye that already stung like hell from where Malfoy's signet ring had cut into him. Malfoy glared up at him, bruises already darkening around his eyes, mouth swollen, lip split. With a loud, vicious whine of frustration, he bucked upward in an attempt to throw Harry off. The movement sent his groin colliding with Harry's, and in an instant of utter shock, Harry realized that both of them were fully hard.

They stared at each other for one long, breathless moment. Then Harry growled in defeat and pressed his mouth to Malfoy's.

On the hard, unforgiving ballroom floor, they strained against each other. Malfoy panted into Harry's mouth, his hips bucking aimlessly until Harry shifted himself so their cocks were better aligned. Both groaned at the contact, rutting harder and faster. The pressure and friction and the wet, shameless movements of Malfoy's mouth against his brought Harry to the edge within moments. He shoved his hips hard against Malfoy's until he felt himself fall over the precipice, groaning helplessly into Malfoy's mouth as his cock throbbed and wetness soaked through his robes. At the sound and feel of Harry's orgasm, Malfoy tripped into his own, shaking desperately under Harry and slamming their still-clasped hands once, twice, three times into the floor over his head as he rode out the pulses.

Harry fell on top of him, panting into Malfoy's neck and unable to look at him. Malfoy's chest heaved under Harry's as he strived to catch his own breath, but he didn't try to push Harry off.

"Um," Harry said after a minute or so had passed with them just lying together on the floor.

Malfoy sighed under him. "Just tell me none of the house-elves were watching."

The words caught Harry so off-guard that he found himself seized by helpless laughter. He levered himself up off of Malfoy, grinning down at him while the other man uneasily made eye contact, one eyebrow lifted in either scorn or inquiry. Unable to help himself, Harry leaned down and pressed a last kiss to Malfoy's mouth. "No, no house-elves," he said and pushed himself away to rise to his feet.

Malfoy rose from the floor as well, dusting off his robes and not looking at Harry.

Harry watched him, his mind whirling. On the one hand, he'd just had a truly incredible orgasm. On the other hand, his partner in said orgasm was his childhood nemesis and under investigation by the Auror Office for suspected criminal activities. Surely he shouldn't feel as good, as utterly invigorated, as he did right now, knowing that.

Malfoy's shoulders were hitched high as he charmed away the evidence of their activities from the front of his robes. His movements were stiff with pain, or possibly embarrassment.

"What just happened here?" Harry asked.

Malfoy froze and did not turn around. "I should think that would be obvious, Potter."

"No," Harry said. "I mean, why? You're you, and I'm me—"

Malfoy turned partially so Harry could see his scowling profile as he fussed with his robes. "Seems to me you could just as easily ask yourself that, being one-half of the equation."

"I can't quite figure it out," Harry said.

"I'm shocked," Malfoy replied dryly. He squared his shoulders and turned to face Harry fully. The brackets around his mouth spoke of strain. "Whatever it is, it won't happen again."

Catching himself by surprise, Harry said, "What if I want it to?"

Malfoy blinked, startled. "Do you?"

It was a harder question to answer than it ought to have been, given the circumstances. Harry found he did want it to happen again, somewhat desperately, and not merely because Malfoy was the first person he'd shared an orgasm with in half a decade. There was something addictive about that combination of anger and passion. He had a suspicion that getting off regularly with Draco Malfoy would be satisfying in a way he'd never experienced before.

He also suspected that this would be the ticket he needed to get beyond Malfoy's walls and find out once and for all whether he was involved in the Mneme smuggling.

"I think I do," Harry said.

Malfoy looked floored by the response and frowned, looking away.

"Don't you want to?" Harry asked, wondering suddenly if he'd misjudged the situation.

"I—" Malfoy faltered. He scowled at Harry again. "It's not like I couldn't find someone else if I wanted to."

Harry lifted an eyebrow.

"It's not about you," Malfoy said. "It's just—convenient."

"Of course," Harry said.

Malfoy's expression darkened. "Don't patronize me."

Harry lifted his hands in surrender. "I'm not. Really. I just—I understand. About convenience."

"Right," Malfoy said, looking even angrier. "Of course you do."

"But it wouldn't hurt, right?" Harry said. "For a while."

Malfoy hesitated. "For a while."

"And as long as it doesn't interfere with the wedding plans," Harry said.

"Right. And as long as the kids don't find out." Malfoy snorted. "That would make for an awkward conversation or two."

"It certainly would," Harry agreed.

They eyed each other in silence for a few moments. Malfoy's long fingers plucked uneasily at the edge of his sleeve, his brow furrowed. Finally, he asked, "You're serious?"

"Absolutely," Harry said, silencing the small voice inside him that was shrieking about what a bad idea this was.

"All right," Malfoy said, his expression making it seem as though the situation were anything but.

"Good," Harry said, feeling as though things were quite the opposite.

They stared at each other again. The weak, early November sunlight diffused as it struck the frost-etched windows, casting a strange golden glow over Malfoy, and Harry found he couldn't resist striding forward, taking that long-familiar face in his hands, and kissing him.

The kiss was swift and gentle, with none of the madness that had fueled their previous encounters. After a half second of surprise, Malfoy returned it, touching his own fingers lightly to Harry's shoulders. Even this was strangely satisfactory—the quiet pleasure of a kiss, of touching his mouth to another's, breathing the same air, if only for an instant. It was strange to think of sharing this with Malfoy, of all people. But his touch was just as hesitant, just as unsettled as Harry felt, and his mouth clung in a way that was as awkward as it was intensely arousing.

Harry drew back slightly, his face inches from Malfoy's. Uncertainty swirled in Malfoy's gray eyes, mirroring what Harry felt. His heart pounding uncomfortably, Harry stepped away and mustered a seemingly careless smile. "Potsy tells me you've talked of nothing but me all week."

Malfoy blinked, then rolled his eyes. "Cursing your name, you complete pillock."

"Good," Harry said, taking another step backward in a way he hoped appeared nonchalant. "I'd expect nothing less."

"Prat."

"Takes one to know one." He turned to survey the room, noting idly, "I think Potsy likes me."

Behind him, Malfoy snorted. "It figures. She's named after you."

Harry turned around in surprise. "You named a house-elf after me? Malfoy, I'm flattered."

"Don't be," Malfoy said bluntly. "First of all, I didn't name her; if you paid any attention at all to your friend Granger, you'd know house-elves are autonomous creatures well enough able to name themselves. But I won't say the name wasn't appropriate—she's always been the most annoying elf of the lot."

Harry forced a laugh. "If she makes your life hell, she's an elf after my own heart. Now, come on," he said, "let's get to work."

*

Wedding preparations took on a whole new tenor once they were allowed to touch each other.

They never did anything untoward in front of the house-elves or, Merlin forbid, in front of Lily or Scorpius. But when the two of them were alone, it wasn't unusual for one of them to grab the other for a snog or a grope or a fast, blissful hand job. When they weren't alone, the tension between them was electric. Over tea with the children, Harry would catch Malfoy watching his mouth as he sipped, or absently stroking his fingers across a spot on his shoulder where earlier Harry had grabbed him to propel him against the wall. For his own part, he found himself intrigued by Malfoy's wide, mobile mouth and its easy, mocking smirks; his long, narrow fingers, practiced and steady from years of handling volatile potions ingredients; the shifting colors of his gray eyes, which darkened so dramatically when he was aroused and gleamed silver in the light.

They'd bared no more of each other's bodies than the most needy and insistent parts. The first sight of Malfoy's cock had awakened a strange hunger in Harry that he hadn't anticipated—he'd never had sexual encounters with a man before Malfoy, and he'd wondered at his own lack of shock or uneasiness with the situation, but the eagerness with which he found himself wrapping a hand around Malfoy's long, reddened cock made him wonder if, perhaps, this sort of desire hadn't been lying dormant for years. He was endlessly fascinated by Malfoy's reactions: the way his cock twitched at Harry's slightest touch, or even a word; the way his face flushed when Harry pressed close to him; the way he was still _Malfoy_ , struggling against Harry for control of every kiss, muscling Harry against a convenient wall, glorying in every noise of surrender he could coax out of Harry with the firm, relentless strokes of his hand along Harry's shaft. It was more than just lust, less than an affair—it was a struggle for dominance, just like in their schooldays. Only now the weapons had changed dramatically.

But there was no pretense of affection between them. After every mind-blowing orgasm, Malfoy would turn away from Harry, snatching what little privacy he could find to do up his clothing and assiduously avoiding eye contact for long minutes, as though in acknowledgment of his shame at having fallen into this sordid arrangement with Harry. That aloofness only spurred Harry on to try harder to get under Malfoy's too-pale skin. Every cry he wrung from Malfoy was a victory, every sidelong glance when he thought Harry couldn't see, every unconscious stare over tea with their children seated beside them, oblivious to the undercurrents.

But the one thing he hadn't been able to win thus far was Malfoy's trust. Their activities never took them beyond the ballroom or the drawing room, and even when Malfoy was summoned from the room by any of a succession of house-elves bearing mysterious urgent messages—each raising Harry's suspicions more—he firmly told Harry to stay behind. Not that Harry would have obeyed, but the house-elves, ever loyal to their master, refused to let him pass until Malfoy returned to the room. Harry'd never been invited to Malfoy's bedroom—though the thought of it sent an odd shiver through him—nor even been able to creep down the hall to search that dark-paneled study, thanks to the elves' diligence.

And so, as the weeks began to roll by with nothing to show for all his time spent at the Manor—aside from the extraordinary sense of well-being that came with enjoying regular orgasms produced by hands not his own—he tried to get Malfoy to talk. Most of their conversations up to this point had been carefully centered on the wedding, neither of them daring—or, perhaps, caring—to venture beyond that boundary. And yet Harry found himself increasingly curious about this man he'd known for so many years without really knowing well at all. 

He decided to begin with a subject that seemed safe enough and was highly relevant to the investigation: Malfoy's son. It was clear in every word and every look that Malfoy doted on him. It was still something of a surprise to Harry, given his memories of the haughty, brattish boy Malfoy had been. But he recalled, too, how Malfoy had idolized his own father, and clearly he wished for his son to feel the same way. Whether Malfoy's ambitions had taken him and his son down a criminal trajectory similar to that of Lucius and Draco decades before, Harry was still uncertain.

"Scorpius seems like a nice young man," Harry remarked one afternoon as he was helping to string fairy lights around the perimeter of the room.

"He's a far better one than I was at a young age," Malfoy replied candidly, surprising Harry. After a few moments without a reply, Malfoy turned to him and raised an eyebrow. "I don't hear you objecting."

"You expected me to?" Harry said with a shrug.

Malfoy shook his head in exasperation, but seemingly without any real resentment. "I've been lucky," Malfoy said. "Perhaps luckier than I deserved."

"How so?" Harry asked.

"Some would say if the fates were just, I'd have had a son who was as much a spoilt little terror as I was."

"Spoilt?" Harry said. "You? Never."

"Funny, Potter."

"I try."

Malfoy turned his attention back to the Christmas tree the elves were decorating, but continued to speak. "He had his moments as a child when I thought perhaps we'd indulged him too much. He got into quite a bit of trouble those first few years of school—helped along by your two hellions, if I recall. But he's turned out well. I've been very pleased."

"Did he just—grow out of it, do you think?"

From where Harry stood, Malfoy's face was in profile to him, and Harry could see a thoughtful frown draw down the corner of his mouth. "Honestly, I think it was the divorce, at least in part. After Asti left, it was primarily just the two of us."

Harry hesitated, then ventured, "Your parents...?"

"My father was hardly a role model," Malfoy said, his lips tightening.

"And your mother?"

"It's complicated," Malfoy snapped. "Let it go, Potter."

Harry made a mental note to make some quiet inquiries about Narcissa Malfoy.

"I took Scorpius into work with me sometimes," Malfoy said. "He got to see how a professional potions lab is run, and it seemed to inspire him. He began studying harder, improved his marks, and earned all O's and E's on his OWLs, then managed the same on his NEWTs. Then he came to work with me."

Harry stopped fiddling with the lights, giving in to the curiosity that had dogged him ever since he'd learned of Malfoy's occupation. "Why _do_ you work, Malfoy? Surely your family has enough money that you wouldn't need to."

Malfoy turned and gave him a level look. "Pot, kettle, Potter? I seem to recall hearing that someone had inherited both the Potter fortune and the vast majority of the Black fortune."

"But I didn't grow up among the idle rich," Harry pointed out. "Solidly middle class, as I'm sure you'd delight in pointing out. And I've given a lot of that money away over the years."

"I know," Malfoy said. At Harry's blink of surprise, he lifted an eyebrow. "You think I don't read the _Prophet_?"

"Oh," Harry said. "Right." He propped a shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, giving up any pretense of working. "You didn't answer my question, though."

"Why do I work?" Malfoy said. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then turned and dismissed the house-elves. 

Harry felt his heart rate accelerate. Malfoy generally dismissed the house-elves when he felt a sudden urge to shove Harry against a wall and thrust a hand into his trousers. Not that Harry would object too strenuously if Malfoy tried that now, but he had been hoping for an answer to his question.

Once the elves had Disapparated, Malfoy faced him, arms over his chest, mirroring Harry's posture. "I work because I _like_ to, Potter. Not that you'd understand."

"Making potions?" Harry said. "You're right, I don't. Never did anything for me."

"I don't just _make potions_ ," Malfoy sneered, turning away and beginning to pace. "I _create_ potions that make a difference. I create _revolutionary_ potions."

"So it's an ego trip."

Malfoy glared. "You would assume that. If it were an ego trip, my name would be all over those things. Every potions breakthrough I've made would bear the Malfoy stamp somehow. But they don't. And you know why, Potter? Because when I started out doing this, _no one_ would have accepted those potions if they'd known I made them." Harry scoffed, and Malfoy all but growled at him. "Think about it. If a Healer had handed you a potion thirty years ago, even twenty years ago, and told you it would cure—oh, whatever particular ailment you were desperate to be cured of—and then told you that I was the one who'd created it, would you have accepted it? Or would you have assumed it was something more sinister—some Death Eater-style poison, perhaps?"

Harry frowned. "I would have—" He hesitated.

"You would have had it tested, at least," Malfoy said, and Harry jerked a shoulder, acknowledging this. "That's why my name isn't on those potions. Sure, if you dig into the regulatory paperwork at the Ministry, you'll find my name buried in it. But my name and likeness don't go on the label. I don't broadcast where I work, or the fact that I work at all. And my name isn't the one at the top of the corporate stationery, even though I _own the fucking laboratory_."

Harry went on full alert at that; that hadn't been in Ariadne's paperwork, and he doubted the other Aurors knew.

Malfoy's prowling of the room brought him close to Harry, and he pushed a hand against Harry's chest. "You have _no idea_ what it was like for my family after the war." His face was close to Harry's, his eyes dark. "The Dark Lord had fucked up my father; he wasn't himself. And my mother—she'd never clung to me like that before. Something was broken in the both of them after what we went through. Everyone who was part of that battle suffered, Potter, _everyone_ , and yet I was spat upon in the street and refused service in shops because of _this_." He shoved up the left sleeve of his robe, baring a pale forearm marked by an old, twisted scar. The Dark Mark wasn't recognizable as such, but its cruel and painful legacy was apparent enough.

"Even so," Malfoy continued, "I didn't let myself get mired in anger and hate. I didn't vow to get even, like some other former Death Eaters I'm sure you encountered in a professional capacity at some point. I set myself to work helping people like my parents and their friends and others who suffered the consequences of the Dark Lord's fucking mania, even if most of them never knew I was the one who'd helped them."

"Neville knows," Harry blurted, still reeling a bit from Malfoy's flood of words.

Malfoy blinked, appearing to come down slightly from the rush that had sustained him. "Oh. Right. Longbottom. He only knows because I had to ask his advice about growing ingredients for one of my recent projects."

" _You_ asked _Neville_ for advice?"

"This, you see, is what happens when Gryffindors become the foremost experts in their fields and take over important Hogwarts positions. Yes, I asked Longbottom for advice, and clearly the world didn't end, so I'll ask you to shut your mouth about it, Potter."

Harry took in the man before him, eyes bright, face flushed, body still vibrating slightly with residual anger, although most of the storm seemed to have passed. Unable to help himself, he caught Malfoy's arm and slowly bared the remnants of the Mark once again. Malfoy tried to jerk away, but Harry's grip was firm. Looking Malfoy in the eye, he pressed a kiss to the scarred flesh. Malfoy sucked in a breath, his eyes locked to Harry's. Next, Harry licked a slow, careful path up the length of Malfoy's forearm, feeling the topography of the scar under his tongue, the ridges and valleys that marked Malfoy's youthful arrogance and subsequent anguish. With a noise very like a whimper, Malfoy fisted his other hand in the front of Harry's robes and dragged him into a desperate, almost punishing kiss.

Harry's back slammed against the wall as Malfoy pressed into him as though he couldn't bear not to be closer, and closer still. It was all Harry could do to hang on as Malfoy ravaged his mouth, fist still clenched in Harry's robes, knuckles shoved bruisingly against Harry's chest. Harry's fingers curled around Malfoy's still-bare forearm, the edges of the Mark standing out in relief under his fingertips. When his fingers tightened, Malfoy moaned and slid his hand between their bodies to free Harry's cock, teasing his fingers along the trembling length until Harry whimpered into his mouth.

Then, to Harry's shock, Malfoy dropped to his knees.

"What—?" Harry managed to choke before the rest of what he'd been about to say was swallowed by a deep and appreciative groan as Malfoy's hot, wet mouth slid over the head of his cock. An eager tongue played shamelessly over his straining flesh, teasing the underside of the head and licking with broad, slow strokes that left Harry shaking and bucking his hips fruitlessly against the restraint of Malfoy's bracing palms. When Malfoy hummed low in approval around the head of his cock, Harry nearly screamed, and all it took thereafter to send him over the edge was a single exploratory finger wandering behind his balls and pressing just so. With a wordless exclamation, Harry came, feeling as though every ounce of energy were being drained from him with each explosive surge through his cock into Malfoy's eagerly sucking mouth.

When Malfoy lifted his hands, Harry slid bonelessly to the ground, panting.

"I—" he said. "Fuck— _wow_."

Malfoy just looked smug and licked his swollen lips one final time, an act that made Harry's spent cock twitch with renewed interest. When Malfoy leaned in to kiss him, Harry let him, marveling at the strange, unpleasant, but undeniably arousing taste of his own come on Draco Malfoy's tongue. Harry stroked his tongue against Malfoy's, feeling the other man start to rub his own erection against Harry's thigh. He fumbled for Malfoy's fly, releasing his cock and wrapping a hand around it, pumping hard and fast, like he knew Malfoy liked it.

Malfoy gasped into his mouth at the touch. "Almost—can't—" With no more than half a dozen pumps, Malfoy was spilling over Harry's fingers, groaning his satisfaction into Harry's mouth. His trembling body slumped next to Harry's, expression slack, and Harry could feel the thud of his heart.

"Huh," Harry said.

Malfoy _hmm_ ed absently, head lolling against Harry's shoulder.

"Maybe I ought to start calling you Draco now," Harry said, still rather dazed.

He felt Malfoy shaking next to him, and glanced over to see that the man had started to laugh silently, face pressed into Harry's shoulder. Unable to help it, Harry found himself smiling as well. When Malfoy lifted his head, he was grinning, flushed, his hair hanging in disarray over eyes that shone with mirth. Harry lifted a hand to his chin and tilted it for a slow, deep kiss.

"Yeah," Malfoy said as he drew back, looking a little shaken. "I don't think that would be amiss at this point."

Harry brushed a lock of hair out of Malfoy's eyes, noting the way he turned his face, as though in embarrassment. "What is it about us," he wondered aloud, "that we always seem primed to fuck around after we've fought?"

Malfoy met his gaze again, looking amused and rueful and somehow very young, strangely like the boy he'd been in school so long ago. "If that's the case, _Harry_ , then we've got a few decades' worth of foreplay to catch up on."

And when Malfoy seized his lips in another kiss, Harry sank into it without taking even an instant to consider the consequences.

*

Malfoy had to report to the lab for the next couple of afternoons, so Harry was forced to stay away from the Manor. He occupied his time reading and re-reading the file on the Malfoys. He'd conferred with Ariadne the evening of his last encounter with Malfoy, and, sure enough, her team hadn't known the true ownership of Light Enterprises, which was listed in official documents as being part of the holdings of an Italian-based trust whose legal ties were so complicated that no one could tell, in turn, who owned _it_. The knowledge that, in truth, Malfoy stood as the company's head cast a shadow over the entire organization in the Aurors' eyes, especially considering Light Enterprises' reputation for being secretive. 

The laboratory was small and privately financed. Current employees didn't talk about what went on there, and, strangely, there _were_ no known former employees to question; people who began working there continued to work there, toiling quietly on potions nobody knew about until the company released them in the marketplace, each of them producing near-miraculous results. Yet even though the potions makers enjoyed a sterling reputation among the mediwizarding community, Light Enterprises' products having cured or at least vastly improved patients St. Mungo's had long ago all but given up on, the company shunned publicity. After listening to Malfoy's rant the other day, it made somewhat more sense to Harry. But he didn't entirely buy Malfoy's supposedly altruistic reasons for getting into the potions-producing business. Although Light Enterprises dominated the medicinal potions market in a variety of areas—nerve damage repair, scar erasure, antivenin, burn recovery—considering the sheer amount of money and research that had to have been poured into each flask, not to mention the surprisingly reasonable prices set for its potions, the company couldn't be making much of a profit. Unless, of course, the medicinal potions were merely a front for something more sinister.

The thought that the Malfoys were involved in illegal activities increasingly made Harry feel squeamish. He hated that he was using Malfoy like this—that they were using each other, really, as he had no illusions that Malfoy cared a whit about him other than as a convenient fuck buddy. But at least Malfoy didn't harbor suspicions that Harry was a criminal...as far as Harry knew, anyhow. He hated, too, that Lily's fiancé could be implicated in all this as well. He didn't know how he'd be able to look her in the eye if Scorpius were arrested.

Out of lingering curiosity, he'd asked a few discreet people about Narcissa Malfoy. Even though Lucius and Draco Malfoy had managed to avoid Azkaban at the end of the war, and although Narcissa had been cleared of wrongdoing altogether, the Auror Office had quietly kept an eye on the family over the years, which was part of the reason they'd known so quickly about Scorpius's encounters with the Mneme producers in Egypt. However, Narcissa Malfoy had all but dropped off the radar about ten years previously. There was a report about some sort of kerfuffle at a society party in which Narcissa's name was mentioned, but details were scant. She'd been seen leaving the Manor only about a dozen times since then, and not at all over the last few years. Yet there was no evidence that she was playing hostess for her friends at the Manor—company was rarely seen entering the house, and only Scorpius and Draco had been tracked going in and out of the Manor's Floo-connected fireplace. Neither, however, was there any evidence of her death. So in all likelihood, she was still living in the Manor somewhere, hiding away from the world. Was she involved in her son's and her grandson's activities? Malfoy was prickly when Harry brought up the subject of his mother, and when he'd mentioned her in an offhand manner to Lily, she'd told him that Scorpius had told her only that, yes, his grandmother was still around, but the situation was complicated and his father didn't like him talking about it. Out of respect for her fiancé's family's privacy, she hadn't pursued the question. But she wasn't an Auror.

Al, however, was. And when he stopped by the house unannounced after finishing an assignment late one evening, he caught Harry poring over a red folder in his study and gave him a narrow-eyed look. "You're not on leave, really, are you, Dad?"

Harry closed the folder as nonchalantly as he could. "You haven't seen me in the office, have you?" he replied.

Al fell into a chair and kicked his feet up on the edge of Harry's desk. Harry waved a hand, knocking them back down. Al grinned, cheeky as ever. "Worth a try," he said. "And, no, I haven't seen you in the office, but that doesn't mean a thing. You're investigating something."

"If I am," Harry said, "and you haven't been told about it, it's obviously for a reason."

Al looked thoughtful, drumming his fingers against his scarlet-draped knee. Then he shook his head. "I'm not going to ask," he said. "Because you're right, of course, and I don't want to compromise an investigation." His fingers halted in their movements and he leaned forward. "But I really hope this has nothing to do with the Malfoys, Dad."

Harry fought not to let his expression change. "Why would it?"

Al looked uncomfortable. "I know we joked early on about investigating Malfoy. And maybe I kind of seriously thought about it. But, well—Lil really likes him. And he's not as bad as I remember. He invited me and James out for drinks last week. We decided to go just because we were impressed he'd had the balls." He colored a bit at the admission. "But it was—kind of fun, actually. He's just a regular bloke. And he admitted he'd been a prat back in school. Seems all right now, though." He shrugged.

Harry leaned forward over the desk and grinned, amused in spite of himself. "So you're telling me Scorpius bought your affections with lager?"

Al huffed out a laugh, but shook his head. "Dad, I'm serious. Whatever you're doing, if it's about Malfoy, it's not worth it."

Harry sat back in his chair, considering. "I never thought I'd see the day when you'd sit there defending a Malfoy to me."

"Never thought I'd see it, either," Al muttered. "But he seems a decent bloke, Dad, honestly. And, well, he gets Lil. He'll be good for her. And besides," he added, dead serious, "she'll kill you if she finds out you investigated her fiancé."

"I have no doubt that she would," Harry replied honestly. "Not that I'm saying I _am_ investigating Scorpius, you realize."

"Right," Al said, not sounding convinced, then mercifully changed the subject.

The next night when the doorbell sounded, Harry wondered for a fleeting instant if it was Al again, determined this time not to interrupt Harry doing anything Al didn't want to know about. And when he opened the door to find Draco Malfoy on the front stoop, he devoutly hoped that Al wouldn't be by this evening, or else he might very well stumble upon something he _really_ didn't want to know about.

"Malfoy," he said.

"It's Draco, remember?" Malfoy said, holding Harry's gaze and not making any move to come closer.

"Right," Harry said. "Sorry. Habits of a lifetime and all that." 

Under the glow of the enchanted porch light, Malfoy's fair hair and pale skin made him look almost ethereal. But his smirk was entirely devilish. "Going to invite me in, Potter?"

"It's Harry, remember?" he retorted.

As Malfoy stepped through the doorway, he brushed deliberately against Harry, his hand grazing the outline of Harry's cock as he leaned close to murmur, "I know it is."

At that, Harry slammed the door and had Malfoy shoved against it in an instant.

Malfoy laughed into Harry's mouth as they thrust shamelessly against each other, rutting like schoolchildren in a darkened classroom. His fingers grasped Harry's arse, pulling Harry's body even more forcefully against his own, baring his throat for Harry to suck on as Malfoy gasped, "Ah...ah!" as he came, bucking hard against Harry's thigh, his head falling against the door with a painful-sounding clunk. Harry followed him seconds later, groaning and shaking as Malfoy wrapped his arms around Harry's back so they were pressed together from knee to neck. 

Harry dropped his forehead against Malfoy's shoulder, panting. "Hope no one Apparated onto the doorstep in the last couple of minutes," he managed.

Malfoy chuckled into his hair and nipped lightly at Harry's ear.

Harry drew away so they both could charm their clothing back to presentability. "What are you doing here, anyway?" he asked.

Malfoy's relaxed posture stiffened a little, and when he smiled, it seemed forced. "I missed you, of course," he said, his tone saccharine. "Why else?"

"Maybe because you missed my pantry?" Harry deadpanned.

Malfoy drew his shoulders back, clearly on the verge of a major snit, and Harry rolled his eyes. "Teasing, Malfoy." He shook his head. "Draco. Merlin."

"I like that last one," Malfoy replied, lifting his chin and looking only a little sullen.

"You would," Harry said. "Do you—want to come in for a drink or something?"

"Oh," Malfoy said. "No, I just—thought I'd stop by and tell you tomorrow's fine. To come over, I mean. I should be at the Manor all day."

Malfoy stood there with his hands in his pockets, chin thrust outward, mouth pursed, as though he hadn't just had that mouth pressed to Harry's, mumbling unintelligible but no doubt dirty things. Harry found himself smirking a little. "You could have just sent an Owl, you know."

"Yes, well." He poked his chin out more, if that were possible. "It was on the way."

"To Wiltshire?" Harry didn't even try to hide the grin.

"Oh, shut up, Potter. I'm leaving now."

Harry laughed and grabbed at Malfoy before he could yank the door open and leave. A long, deep kiss, and Malfoy's stiff posture melted. He sighed against Harry's neck. "Idiot."

"Prat," Harry replied.

"Come over early," Malfoy said, toying with the collar of Harry's shirt and not quite looking at him. "I'll keep the house-elves out all day."

Harry's heart rate accelerated at the words. "I'll be there," he said.

"Good," Malfoy replied, and slid out of Harry's grasp and out the door without another word.

*

True to Malfoy's word, there was not an elf in evidence in the ballroom when Harry arrived. Rather than take advantage of the situation and pounce on Harry, though, Malfoy played it cool all morning. They set light and temperature control charms. They discussed final details relating to the menu for the wedding reception. They chatted about things consequential and inconsequential—the terror of holding one's firstborn child, the joy and pain of seeing one's children grow up and become independent, how the world had changed in the wake of the war. They talked about Ginny's accident, and how Harry had learned to live without her. They talked about Malfoy's ex, and how much more content he was without her.

"Was it because you were gay?" Harry asked. "Why she left, I mean."

"No," Malfoy said. "Though we weren't entirely compatible that way, either. There were other circumstances. She didn't want to be part of the Malfoy family anymore. That being the case, I was glad to see the back of her."

"Oh," Harry said. "Why would she—"

"It's personal," Malfoy snapped, and when Harry scowled, Malfoy sighed and wrapped a hand around Harry's neck and kissed him, slow and deep. When he drew back, Harry tried to follow him, to make the kiss last. Malfoy placed two fingers across Harry's lips. "It's nothing worth knowing," Malfoy said. "Nothing at all interesting. And it's private. I'm asking you to respect that."

Harry blinked in surprise at the request. "I—all right," he said. Malfoy smiled and removed his fingers, kissing Harry again and guiding him down to the floor, spreading him out against the tile and sliding his hands across Harry's arms, his chest, his hips, the insistent bulge of his erection, aching from a long morning spent in the company of a man who'd only looked—and _looked_ —without ever touching, and yet had driven Harry all the more mad for all that.

Strangely, though, Malfoy seemed content now with just the touching. He stroked his palms along the contours of Harry's body, watching the movements of his hands with an enigmatic expression.

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like to forget?" Malfoy asked quietly.

Harry frowned, lifting his hands to place them on top of Malfoy's, stopping their movements. "What do you mean?"

Malfoy turned his palms over so their fingers intertwined. "To forget your life," he said. "Forget who you were or what you'd done."

"Why would I want to?" Harry asked.

"Maybe you wouldn't have the choice," Malfoy said, his expression darkening. "Maybe it would all be taken away from you against your will." His gaze turned distant. "In some ways, perhaps it wouldn't seem so bad—you'd forget the pain, the petty cruelties, the suffering. You'd forget the war."

Harry's heart began to pound at Malfoy's words. "Yes, but you'd also forget the people you loved, and those who loved you, wouldn't you?"

Malfoy's gaze lowered to meet Harry's, his eyes inexpressibly sad. "Yes," he said. "You would. But would it be worth it, to have forgotten the Dark Lord, forgotten the deaths of people you loved?"

Harry's fingers tightened on Malfoy's. "I don't want to forget Voldemort," he said. "The last thing I want to happen is for anyone to forget Voldemort. When we do, another Dark wizard will only rise to take his place."

Malfoy jerked his fingers away from Harry's and sat back on his haunches, looking sour. "Merlin, Potter, way to kill the mood."

Harry sat up. "You brought it up," he said, annoyed.

"I was just thinking aloud, that's all," Malfoy replied sullenly.

Harry shook his head and stood up, his erection well and truly gone now, thanks to Malfoy's Dark Lord talk. And Malfoy's questions unsettled him. Why had the man been dwelling on something so bleak? And how were his ruminations about memory connected to Mneme? "I'm getting back to work," he said, turning his back on Malfoy.

He could feel Malfoy's gaze on him from where the other man still crouched on the floor. After a few long moments, Malfoy sighed, and Harry heard him rise and walk toward him. A pair of strong arms wrapped around Harry's waist from behind, and he felt the warmth of Malfoy's chest against his back and the pressure of a chin settling on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," Malfoy murmured, stroking a hand idly along Harry's sternum, then lower, causing Harry to take a slow, steady breath. "I've been preoccupied," he continued. "There's a lot going on, and I'm not always sure how to—" He broke off and pressed a kiss to the corner of Harry's jaw, making Harry close his eyes at the sensation even as his thoughts raced. Malfoy had to be planning something, he was sure of it. "I'll have the elves fetch us some tea," Malfoy murmured, his breath a warm rush against Harry's ear. "Then we can—"

A knock on the ballroom doors had Malfoy cursing under his breath and drawing away. With a flick of his wand, the door unlocked. "Yes?" he called impatiently.

The door swung open slowly, and a house-elf head peeked through the opening. "Master Draco, sir, there is a—" The elf's gaze slid toward Harry for a moment. "—a situation. You is needed right away."

Malfoy's brow furrowed. "Is it the lab, or—"

"No, sir, Master Draco," the elf said, but did not elaborate.

With a resigned nod, Malfoy turned toward the door. "I'll be back shortly, Potter," he said. The elf cast Harry an apologetic look as Malfoy strode past, then scurried after him down the hall.

The ballroom door hung open, and no elves were present to keep Harry from leaving the room. Malfoy hadn't even thought to forbid him to do so. Seizing his chance, Harry stole out of the room and down the corridor in the opposite direction, toward where he remembered Malfoy's study to be. He suppressed the small voice inside of him that nagged that he was betraying Malfoy's trust. But it was a trust that was falsely earned in the first place, he reminded himself; Harry wouldn't even be here if not for the investigation, and that took precedence over anything else.

Quietly he slipped through the door of the study. Weak, early December sunlight spilled through the room's lone window, casting a pale pattern across the imposing desk. Harry quickly cast a search spell, looking for anything that mentioned Mneme. One of the desk drawers began to glow, and Harry pulled it open and removed the small book that lay inside. It was a journal of sorts, compact and leather-bound. Harry flipped through its pages and discovered, to his dismay, page after page of notes about memory loss, memory repair, and, most damningly of all, Mneme—alchemical formulas, quotes and lore, warnings and advice. It was all there, plain as daylight, written in Malfoy's own hand.

Harry sank into luxurious leather chair behind the desk feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of him. When had he truly started to hope that Malfoy wasn't involved? His hands trembled as he cast a hasty charm to create an exact copy of the journal, which he shrank and thrust into his pocket so he could read through it fully later, when he was alone. Then he carefully slipped Malfoy's book back into the desk drawer, exactly where he'd found it. He darted back down the hall, his heart in his throat, but Malfoy hadn't returned yet. He stood in the center of the room, feeling helpless, staring blankly through the window at the clouds gathering on the horizon. 

Only about two weeks remained until Lily's wedding, and nearly everything was in readiness. She'd decided to wear her mother's wedding dress, which fit her as though it had been made for her. The entire wedding party had their attire ready. The Malfoy Manor elves were preparing to whip up a feast like the house hadn't seen in years. And burning a hole in his pocket was, perhaps, evidence that the groom's father was involved in a vast criminal conspiracy.

When Malfoy returned about five minutes later, Harry hadn't moved from his spot. Malfoy closed the door behind him and cast a locking spell, then strode purposefully to Harry, reaching to take his hand and draw him into a kiss, which Harry couldn't bring himself to return. Those warm, half-smiling lips lifted from his as Malfoy drew back, looking confused and a little put out. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Harry closed his eyes and shook his head. "Not feeling well," he said, and it was the truth. "Think I might go home."

Malfoy eyed him suspiciously, then frowned. "You do look a little green. Will you be all right to Apparate?"

"Yeah," Harry said, brushing past him, unable to leave fast enough. "I'll be fine. I just—I need to be home for a while."

Malfoy's expression closed. "All right," he said.

Harry paused at the doorway, turning to look at Malfoy again. "I—I'll see you. All right?"

"Yeah," Malfoy said, and turned his back on Harry, his shoulders stiff.

Harry hated that part of him wanted to walk back into the room, touch a hand to that straight back, soothe away the tension. Instead, though, he grasped the doorknob and let himself out.

*

With a fortifying tumbler of whiskey at his elbow, Harry sat down at his desk that night and opened the journal.

According to the various dates Harry saw as he paged through the densely covered sheets of vellum, the journal contained about a year's worth of research into the properties of Mneme. Some of the notes were written in a different hand, appearing to have been magically copied from another set of notes. Harry wasn't familiar enough with Scorpius's handwriting to recognize it, but the dates in those entries matched up with the dates in the Aurors' file chronicling his visits to Egypt. He read accounts of witnessing Mneme's effects on different types of users, of the way different modes of preparation tweaked its effects. The journal even contained notes scrawled after meetings with members of the Egyptian Wizarding government, detailing why their country had opted to legalize Mneme about five years ago, as well as the regulations set upon its production.

What he didn't find in the journal was any indication that the Malfoys had actually brought any of the substance with them. Although, he thought dully as he drained the last of the whiskey, it certainly looked within the realm of possibility that Light Enterprises might now be engaged in the potion's production.

He leaned his forehead into his hands with a sigh. There had to be a way of proving or disproving the Malfoys' involvement. Further attempts by Ariadne's team to gain access to Light Enterprises by means of concealment and disguise had been unsuccessful. It was beginning to look as though the only way the Aurors were going to be able to get a look inside was with a warrant. The contents of the book offered reasonable grounds for suspicion. And yet Harry found himself reluctant to turn it over to the rest of the team just yet. If he did, and they searched the laboratory's premises, it could very well destroy the company's reputation, even if they were found entirely in the clear. Something about Malfoy's passionate defense of his potions-making work had resonated with Harry, even unwillingly. He hadn't wanted to believe that Malfoy was telling the truth. Yet, for some reason, Harry suspected he had been.

There'd been a fair amount of resentment in the corps when Harry was promoted to Head Auror before he'd even turned forty. But Aurors who'd worked with him for long enough knew that he hadn't been granted the position based on fame and political expediency alone. It took more than just rigorous adherence to procedure to crack a lot of the cases the Aurors faced; it also took a willingness to bend the rules and a set of finely honed instincts. And something about this case wasn't sitting right with Harry's instincts. As he rubbed his temples, wishing away the headache that had built up behind his eyes, he devoutly hoped it wasn't merely that his instincts were being drowned out by the demands by his libido.

Even so, he closed the small book and slid it out of sight under a stack of parchment at the corner of his desk. Before he took the next official step, there was one more niggling question he needed answered.

*

He received a somewhat stiffly worded Owl from Malfoy in the morning, inquiring after his health and informing Harry that Malfoy was required to be at the lab for the next few days, so he would not be at home for decorating purposes. The situation suited Harry just fine, however, and in late morning, when he was fairly certain Malfoy would be gone, he Apparated to the gates of the Manor, which swung wide to allow him entry.

A surprised Potsy stammered to him that Master Draco was not at home, but Harry merely gave her his most charming smile and lied, telling her Malfoy had bade him come over anyhow and get some last-minute preparation completed while Malfoy was out of the house. Potsy looked suspicious, but, as Harry had suspected, she harbored a soft spot for him in her house-elf heart, and let him into the entryway, seeming relieved when he took off in his usual direction, toward the ballroom.

He didn't end up there, however.

When he got to the end of the hallway, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that Potsy had wandered away from her post. Quickly he darted in the opposite direction, toward where he'd seen Malfoy heading the numerous times the house-elves had called him away. Stealing up an elaborate staircase, he cast a heightened listening spell that would give him warning if a house-elf wandered near—or, Merlin forbid, Malfoy came home early—and began laboriously checking every room he encountered, first testing for intruder alert spells and the like, then quickly assessing the contents of each room. 

He discovered cavernous, darkened rooms with furniture cloaked in drop cloths; a room filled with toys and trinkets suited to a young boy, which Harry could only assume had belonged to Scorpius, or perhaps even Draco, long ago; even a small library filled with, of all things, Muggle medical and chemistry texts. Several guest suites were immaculately kept, and one suite of rooms, decorated in a rich green, was so clearly lived in, down to an abandoned pair of silken pajama bottoms on the floor next to the bed, that Harry knew it had to belong to Malfoy. He took a long look around, suspecting he might never get the opportunity again. Family photographs were scattered across the dresser, a Slytherin pennant tacked up in the corner. Books lay haphazardly on the floor and the nightstand, pages marked with scraps of parchment. _Mysteries of the Brain_ , said one; _A Journey Through Human Memory_ , another. He crept back out, careful not to disturb anything, and closed the door softly, his heart hammering.

At the far end of the adjacent corridor, he found what he'd been looking for.

His spellwork revealed the presence of a person behind the last door, and Harry cast a charm that would allow him to see inside the room without opening the door. Within, Narcissa Malfoy sat in a chair next to the window, a book lying untouched in her lap as she stared out at the December landscape.

Steeling himself, Harry cast _Alohomora_ and stepped into the suite.

Narcissa turned at the sound of his entry, blinking in surprise. "Oh," she said, and no more.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry said. "I apologize for disturbing you."

She smiled a little, hesitantly. "It's no disturbance. It isn't every day I get a visit from a handsome dark-haired man."

The soft white light that spilled over her through the window made her look pale and frail, although somehow more beautiful than he remembered her from his youth. Wizards and witches tended to age more gracefully than Muggles, and the years had been mostly kind to her—her hair, a crown of silver and gold, was drawn away from her face, revealing skin that looked porcelain-delicate, etched with fine lines. Her eyes were wide, but oddly blank as they met his.

He walked across the room to perch on the edge of the chair opposite her, and her gaze followed him placidly. "Mrs. Malfoy," he said, "I've been concerned about you, and about your son—"

"Why would you be concerned?" she said, some of her old haughtiness adding steel to her tone. "As you can see, I am perfectly fine, and I can assure you that so is my Draco. Besides, who are you to be inquiring? I don't even know you."

He frowned. "I'm Harry Potter, ma'am."

She narrowed her eyes. "You most certainly are not. Harry Potter is a boy. I should know—he's in the same year as my son at Hogwarts. I don't know what you're playing at."

He reeled, sitting upright. "Mrs. Malfoy, I—"

"Now, I think you had best be going, or I will call my husband to remove you at once."

"I—" He floundered, shocked. "But—Lucius Malfoy is dead."

A peculiar expression washed over her face, and for an instant he thought she knew him. But then it passed, and he found himself once again confronted by a face that showed no recognition. She pointed an imperious finger toward the door. "Go."

He rose from the chair and gazed down at her helplessly. She'd clasped her hands tightly in her lap, and her thin shoulders were shaking ever so slightly. This wasn't an act; she truly didn't know him. "I'm sorry," he said again, and fled down the hall, down the staircase, and to the front door, where Potsy appeared as soon as he grasped the doorknob.

"Mister Harry Potter, sir—" she said, and Harry cut her off.

"I have to leave," he said. "I—don't tell Malfoy I was here, all right?"

"But, sir—" Her face twisted in anguish, loyalty to her master warring with her idolization of Harry.

He couldn't wait around for her to make up her mind. "I have to go. I'll see you, Potsy." The instant he was beyond the gates, he Apparated home, threw on his Auror robes, and headed for the Auror Office to root through Ariadne's files on the Mneme cases. 

When she walked in from a late lunch, he was at her desk, poring over an unsatisfyingly thin file. "Harry—?" She stopped in her tracks. "You're supposed to be 'on leave,' you twat."

"Lovely to see you, too," he said. "The Glastonbury incident last year—there's not a whole lot of information here."

She pulled up a chair next to him. "Everything that's relevant to the case is in here. The man effectively killed his grandfather. Erased his memory entirely."

"But the grandfather was losing his memory already, right?" Harry asked. "The Mneme just hastened it along."

"Right," she said. "It was a very tricky situation. You remember—we couldn't get him on murder charges because there was no way of proving the disease wouldn't have killed him that fast anyway. We just got the grandson on possession and distribution."

He rubbed his fingers against his temples. "Yes, but whatever the grandfather had—it was degenerative, right?"

"Right. Fairly rare, too, and thus far incurable." She sighed. "In a way, I almost hated to arrest the young man; it was a desperate act born out of grief."

"Shit," Harry said. " _Shit_."

*

When Harry got home, he drank a tumbler of scotch.

It burned so well going down, he poured himself another.

He managed to stop himself before indulging in a third. He sat in his study as the last light of a too-short afternoon slowly retreated with the sun. Ariadne was going to pursue search warrants for Light Enterprises and Malfoy Manor tomorrow. Harry wasn't entirely convinced; he couldn't believe his instincts could have been so wrong. Ariadne had just looked at him with pity and said quietly that she knew he didn't want to upset Lily, but it was for the best. He'd been too ashamed to admit it hadn't been thoughts of Lily that had put the stricken look on his face.

Somehow he was unsurprised when the doorbell rang not long after sundown. A detection spell revealed Malfoy on the doorstep, and Harry hesitated for only a moment before taking a deep breath and opening the door. They stared at each other in the deepening shadows, light from Harry's hallway spilling across the stoop, casting Malfoy's features into sharper relief.

"Draco," Harry said.

Malfoy held his gaze. "I missed you," he said, and looked as though the admission had made him physically ill.

"I—" Harry's heart was thundering. Malfoy obviously didn't know Harry had been to the Manor that day, had no idea how Harry had violated his trust. He had no inkling of what was coming on the morrow.

"Come in," Harry said, and reached for him as soon as Malfoy crossed the threshold. Malfoy backed him up against the wall as Harry kicked the door shut, their mouths meeting hungrily. 

Malfoy anchored one hand to the back of Harry's head to hold him in place while Malfoy's mouth plundered his, and the other bunched in the front of Harry's robes. "Auror robes," Malfoy murmured against his lips. "Scorchingly hot. So authoritative. There's something about a man in red."

"Always suspected you had a Gryffindor kink," Harry gasped as Malfoy sucked at his neck.

"Mmm. No," Malfoy whispered into his ear. "Maybe just a Harry Potter kink."

Harry groaned and propelled Malfoy through the first open doorway he could reach, which turned out to be his study. Malfoy laughed, low and delighted, as Harry backed him up against the desk so that Malfoy was perched against the edge, caught between the furniture and Harry's insistent body. Pressing his hands to the wood on either side of Malfoy's hips, Harry leaned in, kissing Malfoy hard and putting him off balance so he was forced to cling to Harry or fall backward. One of Malfoy's legs rose to curl around Harry's hip, and Harry pressed his groin into Malfoy's, feeling the heat building between them, reveling in the desperate sounds Malfoy made as Harry's explored his mouth with relentless thoroughness, his heart thundering in his ears, _the last time, the last time_.

When Harry sank to his knees in front of Malfoy's parted thighs, the strangled sound Malfoy made was one Harry thought he'd remember for the rest of his life.

He started to shrug out of his Auror robes, which he hadn't bothered to take off since returning from the Ministry, but Malfoy placed an ever-so-slightly trembling hand on his shoulder to stay him. "No," he said. "Leave that on."

"What?" Harry asked, surprised. "Why?"

"Because it's _Harry Potter_ in an _Auror uniform_ , about to _suck me off_ ," Malfoy replied, looking annoyed at being forced to explain himself. "What part of that triumvirate of wank fantasy-worthy material do you not get?"

"I—" Harry flushed and fell silent.

Malfoy stared at him for a moment, then laughed quietly, sounding pleased. "Don't tell me you and your wife never fucked while you were in uniform?"

"Er," Harry said. "No."

"Weasley didn't have an Auror fetish?" Malfoy leaned forward and stroked cool fingers along Harry's face where a blush still heated his skin. "What a waste."

Harry swallowed. "Ginny was—well, she wasn't thrilled about the whole Auror thing," he said. "She respected my need to do it, but she said the uniform just reminded her that I was in constant danger."

Malfoy shook his head. "That's the most asinine thing I've ever heard," he said, and tilted Harry's face up for a slow, hot kiss that did quite a nice job of frying the circuits in Harry's brain. "You're Harry Potter," he said against Harry's lips. "That's what you _do_."

Harry turned his face away, guilt crashing over him like a wave at the knowledge of what this uniform would mean for Malfoy come morning. But Malfoy sank his fingers into Harry's hair, letting the strands slide through his fingers, and his breath was belabored in Harry's ear, his arousal still fiercely apparent. And Harry wanted him so badly. _Last time, last time_ , the tattoo continued to beat in his head, and Harry gave in.

Malfoy sucked in a breath as Harry opened Malfoy's robes and slowly undid the fastenings on his trousers. Malfoy's cock, reddened and eager, leapt from its confines, and Harry skimmed his fingers lightly along the contoured length of it, watching Malfoy's face contort with pleasure at just that light touch. When Harry leaned forward and gusted a hot breath across the straining tip, Malfoy's cock jerked, and he groaned as though in pain. And when Harry took the tip into his mouth for the first time, Malfoy gasped and threw his head back, his body arching.

Since Harry's experience with fellatio was limited to having it performed upon him, he wasn't entirely certain what to do, so he began experimenting, trying things he'd liked in the past, and combining them with the types of movements he'd discovered made Malfoy whimper over the course of their time together at Malfoy Manor. Tickling under the head made Malfoy pant. A long, slow lick drew a groan, and the faintest touch of teeth had Malfoy bucking so forcefully that Harry had to anchor his hips to the desk with a restraining hand while the other curled around the base of Malfoy's cock and began to stroke in rhythm to the movements of Harry's mouth.

The flavor was salty and strange against Harry's tongue, but the sense of having Malfoy under his power was like a drug, the rush heady and dizzying. At first, Malfoy sat up on the edge of the desk, watching with wide, smoldering eyes as Harry's lips teased and sucked. But once Harry picked up the pace, moving into a hard, strong rhythm, sucking intently in concert with the motion of his fist along the shaft, Malfoy had fallen flat back onto the desk, his hips jerking, his open, panting mouth spilling a mindless litany of, "Fuck...fuck... _fuck_... _Harry_."

Harry felt Malfoy's orgasm approach seconds before it hit, that desperate cock swelling and stiffening against his tongue, and when it coursed through him, Malfoy's body bowed off the desktop, a groan ripped from him that seemed to come all the way from his toes. Harry swallowed, grimacing, but kept his mouth on Malfoy's cock until he had ridden out the last of the aftershocks and sudden, powerful oversensitivity made Malfoy shiver and whimper a little. Harry sat back and looked on with satisfaction as Malfoy lay supine across the desk, chest heaving in the aftermath. Harry stood and rounded the desk to look down at Malfoy's flushed, slack face. "Merlin," Malfoy breathed, and opened his eyes to meet Harry's gaze.

"I thought you were just going to call me _Harry_ ," he joked.

The corner of Malfoy's mouth tilted up in a tired, thoroughly fucked-out half-smile as he reached to rub the back of his hand over the bulge that he could no doubt feel even through Harry's robes and trousers. "Best take care of that," Malfoy murmured. He lifted his arms over his head in a slow, fluid stretch that made Harry's mouth water to see it spread along the length of Malfoy's body. But as he brought his arms back down and began to swing his legs over, the better to sit up and address Harry's little problem, his arm knocked into a stack of parchment and files that had been shoved to the corner and perched precariously on the edge of the desk. Red folders and rolls of parchment went scattering across the floor, and a small, thick object landed with a decided _thump_ on top of the mess. Harry's eyes widened, and he looked at Malfoy's face, praying he hadn't seen.

But, naturally, he had.

More quickly than Harry would have expected of a man that loose after orgasm, Malfoy swung himself off the desk and snatched the small book off the floor. The instant he flipped it open, his brow knitted and his whole face darkened. His eyes were filled with accusation when he looked up at Harry again. "This is my book, Potter."

"Well," Harry said reluctantly, "technically, it's a copy." Without his even realizing it, his Auror reflexes had come to the fore, fingers having moved to rest upon his holstered wand, just in case he needed it.

"Why," Malfoy replied, tone icy, "do you have a _copy_ of _my book_?"

"Would you believe I was interested in potions research?" Harry said.

Malfoy's nostrils flared, anger clearly held barely in check.

So Harry took a different tack. "That journal contains extensive notes about a highly dangerous and illegal potion, Malfoy—"

Yet somehow that was the wrong thing to say, too. Malfoy flinched at the use of his surname and seemed to shrink into himself, his face alive with dawning horror. "You've been investigating me, haven't you? You think I'm doing something illegal."

"The Aurors—they—"

"Don't give me that, Potter, you _are_ the fucking Aurors." He tossed the book into the air, catching it one-handed and glaring down at it. "So what am I suspected of? Trafficking?"

"Or illegal production," Harry admitted.

Malfoy nodded slowly, still not looking at Harry. "So all of this," he said, eyes on the book, "has been part of a plan to find out my secrets."

"No," Harry said, his heart in his throat suddenly. "Draco, I swear—"

Malfoy laughed bitterly, finally meeting Harry's gaze, and his eyes were blank and cold. "Like I should believe anything you say, Potter. This is just one more battle in the never-ending war between us, isn't it?" A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Hey, at least I managed to get a halfway decent blow job out of the deal this time, right?"

"Draco." Harry knew he was an idiot for showing his cards like this, knew he ought to summon the other Aurors and take Malfoy into custody, or at least restrain Malfoy so there was no chance of retaliation here where there were no witnesses around to see, but he could feel something slipping through his fingers that he'd only just begun to realize he'd held in his grasp, and it made him desperate. "Look, I know why you've been doing this, whatever you've been doing. I saw your mother today—"

"You _what_?" Malfoy grabbed the front of Harry's robes and shoved him unceremoniously against the wall, his face too close, his rage almost palpable. "What do you mean you 'saw my mother' today?"

Harry held his gaze and slowly pried Malfoy's fingers off his robes. "I went to the Manor today, and I found your mother. I know you're doing this for her."

"How dare you?" Malfoy breathed. "How _dare_ you? Couldn't just leave well enough alone, could you, Potter? Merlin forbid anyone keep a sensitive family secret from the Chosen One."

Harry wanted to throttle him. "Damn it, Malfoy, why didn't you just ask for help? It can't be easy, and there's no shame in—"

"No shame for whom?" Malfoy demanded. "Do you think my mother— _my mother_ , given who she used to be in society—would want it known what she's become? She's the one who sequestered herself when she finally realized what was happening."

"How long has this been going on?" Harry asked.

Malfoy stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest, book still clasped in his hand and coming to rest against his heart. "Nearly a decade," he admitted, looking weary. "It was just small things at first—forgetting friends' names and the like. Then she got disoriented at a party once and, well, there was a scene, and she refused to attend parties anymore." He shook his head, brackets of pain around his mouth. "It's been slow but steady. Sometimes she still has good days, but they've become fewer and farther between. That was the reason my ex-wife finally left," Malfoy noted bitterly. "Astoria couldn't handle the responsibility of helping to care for my mother—she had no interest in anything that interfered with her whirl of parties and such. And at that point Mother wasn't nearly as…afflicted as she is now. Up until a few years ago, she was still trying to attend to her social obligations, even from her self-imposed exile. I still remember she made me send you a sympathy note when your wife died." Harry started at that, but Malfoy was too lost in his own thoughts to notice. "She told me she knew you and I had never got along, but no one deserved to lose their life partner like that. Said she knew how she'd feel if she lost my father, that she would take comfort anywhere it was offered." He swallowed. "But by the time Dad died a few years later, she was too far gone to even realize what was going on."

"Draco..." Harry said.

"I've been trying for almost ten years now to find a cure," Malfoy continued, as though Harry hadn't spoken. "And once Scorpius came to work at the lab, he became part of the project as well, and has been taking on more and more responsibility so I can spend time with Mother as needed. We've tried variations on the nerve-restoring potion I invented after the war, the one that helped my dad. But that wasn't the right approach. I've researched hundreds, if not thousands, of potions, some truly ancient, all claiming to affect the memory. Nothing worked. Then, last year, I read an article about a man trying to cure his grandfather with illegal Mneme."

He lifted his chin and met Harry's gaze for the first time in long minutes. "You never asked what the research was for, did you, Potter? You assumed I was sneaking the potion into the country, or brewing it in my laboratory. But I'm not that stupid. I knew it wouldn't work—anyone with any degree of potions expertise would know that potion wouldn't work in that way. But I thought maybe its memory-enhancing properties could be adapted to help restore lost memories, or at least prevent the loss of any additional ones."

Harry was certain Malfoy was telling the truth. For all his supposed Slytherin cunning, Malfoy had never been a particularly effective liar when it really counted, and his tone now was too flat and matter-of-fact to be anything but the truth. He began to feel ill. "So you've been—"

"Conducting research into the properties of various ingredients in an illegal potion—an act which, as you might know, Mr. Law Enforcement Head, is not, in fact, illegal." Malfoy uncrossed his arms and fanned through the book's pages with his thumb. "Did you even notice the level of detail paid to the different varieties of Mneme we encountered in Egypt, and the focus on the way each version manifested itself in whoever ingested it?" He sneered. "No, I'm sure all you saw was the name of an illegal potion, and that's all you needed to convict me in your mind."

"That isn't true—"

"Are the Aurors coming to collect me in the morning?" Malfoy asked, gaze sweeping up Harry's disheveled scarlet robes. "Is that what this was all about?" When Harry was only silent in response, Malfoy nodded. "Right. Well, then, I'll just be off."

"Wait." Harry latched onto Malfoy's arm. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

" _I_ am going to head to the Auror Office and find some underling of yours to discuss this situation with and offer my full cooperation with the investigation." His face was stark with anger. "You fucker. All you would have had to do is ask." With that, he punched Harry, hard, in the mouth, knocking him to the floor, and stormed out the door before Harry could scramble after him. Harry heard the front door slam open and the sharp crack of Apparition, and he drew up his knees and rested his forehead on them, the pain in his face subsumed by the overwhelming sense of loss that washed over him in the sudden silence.

*

The next two weeks were hell.

Ariadne had Floo-called him within an hour after Malfoy left for the last time. The man apparently had waltzed into the Auror Office, found her working late, and announced that, as a respectable potions brewer, he wanted to aid in the effort to remove slimy illegal potions dealers from the streets. He'd been working on his own Mneme-related compounds, he told her, and had come to realize just how dangerous the potion was. He was eager to offer up his services, and those of all the hand-picked potions experts on Light Enterprises' staff, to use their contacts to suss out who was making or importing this terrible substance.

She'd told him she had to consult with her boss, and while Malfoy had waited—no doubt gnashing his teeth in annoyance—she had Floo'ed Harry and gained his permission to assemble a team that night to search Light Enterprises' facility—as a precautionary measure, she assured Malfoy, who apparently had smiled and murmured he'd expected nothing less.

Within hours, Malfoy, his son, and his company were in the clear. And within a week, thanks to Malfoy and his associates' extensive contacts in the potions world, the Aurors had identified a team of French smugglers as the culprits behind the Mneme outbreak. Less than a week later, the entire group was in Auror custody, and the office had begun the laborious process of tracing the potion's distribution route through England to halt the outbreak entirely.

Harry, however, had nothing to do with the triumph. Once Ariadne began working with Malfoy on the case, Harry gratefully handed over his files and informed the Minister and his subordinates that he was taking a real leave until after Christmas. He let them assume it was to concentrate on the wedding. It wasn't.

Or it wouldn't have been, if he could have helped it. Malfoy refused to take his Owls. He blocked off the Manor's Floo portal. And when Harry tried to show up on Malfoy's doorstep, he discovered the man had re-charmed the gates to refuse him entrance to the grounds, and even cast a warding spell so Harry couldn't fly onto the property.

Somehow, though, they managed to keep Lily and Scorpius from figuring out that there'd been a rift between them. Scorpius cooperated with the investigation, of course, and Lily was delighted, having come to the conclusion that Harry and Draco had learned to get on so well that Harry had drafted the man into police work.

Although, in a way, she wasn't entirely wrong.

Malfoy managed to avoid speaking to him throughout the entire rehearsal dinner, merely by dint of being aggressively social with everyone else who crossed his path. Even Ron, he found out later, had been cornered at one point and forcibly engaged in a conversation about the Cannons' chances that year.

"Not too bad a bloke after all, that Malfoy," Ron remarked thoughtfully. "Though he's off his nut if he thinks the Cannons can't take Wimbourne. I mean, honestly, _Wimbourne_."

The morning of the wedding dawned cold and crisp and clear. It was the first time Harry had been permitted to set foot in the Manor in more than two weeks. Potsy greeted him at the door with a nervous expression, no doubt having been subjected to more of Malfoy's vitriol relating to Harry, but Malfoy himself was nowhere to be found. As Lily and Rose, her maid of honor, finished dressing for the ceremony in one of the guest suites upstairs, Harry wandered down to the ballroom.

The sunshine beaming through the tall windows made the entire room seem to glow, glinting off the delicate icicles and lending sparkle to the snowflakes drifting gently from the ceiling. But all Harry could see when he entered the room was one thing.

"Draco," he said.

Malfoy turned around, his expression blank. "Potter," he said with a cool nod, then turned his back once more.

Harry strode forward to grasp Malfoy's arm, feeling the man's entire body stiffen in distaste as he did so. "Look, Draco, I'm _sorry_. This isn't what I meant to happen—"

Malfoy's eyes flashed as he turned toward Harry. "Oh," he hissed, "so the sex was just an unexpected bonus, right?"

Shocked, Harry lifted his hand from Malfoy's arm. "No," he said. "I mean—yes, it was unexpected, but it wasn't like—"

"Oh, I know what it was _like_ , Potter," he said bitterly. "'Oh, it won't hurt to try it for a while,'" he mimicked in a high-pitched voice. "'It'll be so _convenient_.'"

"Hey," Harry said, affronted. "That's not fair. You're the one who mentioned convenience first, if I recall."

"Perhaps I did," Malfoy replied, turning away again. "And as this—this—whatever the fuck it is—is no longer _convenient_ for either of us, I suggest you take your leave. The guests will be arriving soon."

"Damn it, Draco, this isn't about convenience. If you'd just listen—"

"Oh, fuck you, Harry," Malfoy snapped, sounding weary. "Get out of here. I don't want to look at you."

Stung, Harry drew away and walked toward the door. As he exited the room, though, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that Malfoy's posture had slumped, the line of his shoulders speaking of nothing so much as defeat.

*

The sight of Lily in her mother's wedding gown took Harry's breath away when she stepped out of the guest suite and into the corridor.

It wasn't that she looked just like Ginny, although certainly she bore her mother's coloring and their features were similar in some ways. But to see his daughter, whom he remembered holding in his arms as she took some of her very first breaths in this world, standing tall and beautiful and seeming to glow from within while wearing a dress that had played a role in another one of the most unforgettably joyful days of Harry's life...it was enough to make his throat catch, and he had to clear it before he was able to speak. "Wow," he said.

She waved Rose on down the hall. "We'll catch up," she told her, then turned in a circle so Harry could see the dress and the flowers Rose and one of the house-elves had arranged in her titian hair. "You like it?" she asked.

"You're beautiful," he told her, and kissed her cheek. "Your mum would be so proud."

She hugged him close. "I wish she could be here," she said.

"So do I," he said, and released her.

She took his arm as they made their way down the hallway toward the staircase, her expression thoughtful. "Scorp and I have been talking about you and Draco, you know," she said lightly.

He felt a tightness in his chest at the words. "How so?" he asked, hoping his tone didn't betray him.

She halted and turned to face him. "I'm not entirely blind, Dad. We know what's going on. Although," she frowned a little, looking more perplexed than unhappy, "yeah, I mean, it's a little odd thinking about our dads— _together_. Scorp's definitely a little weirded out. But I think it's terrific." She beamed and tugged playfully on his sleeve.

His heart racing, Harry opted to play dumb. "What are you talking about?"

She rolled her eyes. "Dad, do you really think nobody's noticed? You're over here all the time. The house-elves, who were supposed to be doing all the work, if I remember correctly, get locked out of the room day after day while you two disappear together mysteriously. You even started calling him 'Draco' recently—I heard you. And Merlin, the way he _looks_ at you. Even at the rehearsal dinner last night—every time I glanced over at him, his eyes were on you, no matter who he was talking to. I'd be surprised if no one else noticed. It embarrassed the hell out of Scorp," she said with a laugh.

"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "It's not like—"

"Dad," she said, sliding her hand down to clasp his earnestly. "I haven't seen you look as alive as you have in the last month or so since Mum was still here." Her expression turned sad. "It's been just us kids and work for you for _five years_. If Scorp's dad is what it's taken to get you to look beyond that, well, I'm all for it."

He shook his head, each of her words wounding him as he thought of how badly he'd fucked up. "It isn't like that, Lil. It's—complicated."

"What's complicated about love?" She laughed, tossing head back. "It's the simplest, most wonderful thing in the world, Dad."

Harry froze. "It's not," he said. "Love, I mean. For either of—no. I can't explain—"

She lifted a single eyebrow at him in clear dismissal of his protests. "Well, whatever delusions you're clinging to, Scorp's pretty sure his dad's in love with you. Says Draco was always kind of obsessed with you, even when Scorp was a kid, so maybe this was inevitable."

Harry huffed out a breath and just shook his head again.

Lily shrugged elaborately. "Fine, then, be that way. If you insist on walking away from the one thing that's made you happy—"

"I have not been happy," he interrupted, then tried to restrain the snap he could hear in his tone. "I have been completely miserable, if you must know, and for reasons that are none of your business, young lady."

She grinned. "Love is pain, Daddy."

"I don't love him," he insisted.

She cocked her head, still smiling. "But could you?"

Harry's heart pounded in his ears as he opened his mouth to answer, _No, of course not, don't be silly_. But nothing came out. He closed it again.

Lily smiled knowingly and kissed him on the cheek, slipping her arm through his once more as they made their way to the ballroom. 

As they took their first steps down the aisle toward where Lily's future husband waited, Harry glanced up to see Draco looking at him, a touch of wistfulness in his expression. But when he caught Harry's gaze on him, he schooled his face to impassivity once again.

But perhaps, Harry thought as he watched his daughter take the hand of her beloved, there was reason to hope.

*

Two hours into the reception, Harry still hadn't found an opportunity to speak to Malfoy. It seemed the man had become phenomenally skilled at evading Harry—every time Harry tried to make his way over toward where Malfoy was, the man would move away or, worse, engage himself in conversation with people in front of whom Harry wasn't quite prepared to make a fool of himself, like Theodore Nott and his wife Pansy, who'd at least had the grace to look ill at ease when she'd spotted Harry on arrival.

It had been a beautiful wedding, and the reception was equally stunning. The crowd was small, but the music was lively and the food a sheer gustatory pleasure. Lily and Scorpius danced and laughed and touched, their obvious joy in one another the last, crucial dash of magic the event had needed, and one no spell from Harry or Draco's wand could have imbued.

A couple of hours into the party, he found himself standing next to Scorpius Malfoy, the both of them watching Lily laughing merrily as she danced with Teddy Lupin. Scorpius wore a fond smile as he gazed out onto the dance floor, and Harry wondered if Scorpius even knew he'd wandered over to Harry's side, and hated to break the man's reverie to find out. Then Scorpius spoke. "I'm very lucky to have found her, sir, and I want you to know that I am fully aware of that."

Harry turned to look at him, and found that Scorpius was facing him now. Harry held his gaze for a moment, then nodded and extended a hand for Scorpius to take. As they shook, Harry reminded him, "I've said you can call me Harry."

"I think that will take a while to get used to," Scorpius admitted with a rueful smile. "You're still a bit larger than life, you know."

Harry shook his head, glancing back toward the dance floor. "I'm just an ordinary person."

"Well, you're not, because for one thing you're Lily's father, and that could never make you ordinary," Scorpius said, grinning a little, then turning more serious. "But you also don't know what it was like to grow up in the aftermath of what you did. You're a legend, sir. I used to be completely in awe that my father had gone to school with you."

"I don't suppose your father was too pleased with that," Harry noted wryly.

"Actually, he talked about you all the time," Scorpius said.

"Complaining, no doubt, about that wretched Potter," Harry said.

"No, he didn't," Scorpius said. "It was years before I figured out the two of you had been at each other's throats all the time. All I knew was that you'd saved my father's life once; I assumed that meant you had been friends."

Harry blinked in surprise. "He talked about that?"

Scorpius nodded, meeting his gaze again. "Many times. Mostly because I asked. But he told it without too much reluctance, even though I know now how much it must have hurt to talk about, given what happened to his friend Vince."

Harry nodded, suppressing a shiver at the memory of that night—the oppressive heat and smoke, the too-tight band of desperately clinging arms around his midsection, the roar of the fire and the shrill scream of Malfoy's voice in his ear as they cheated death together.

"He told me once," Scorpius continued, holding Harry's gaze, "that he wanted me to know that story so I'd understand that heroes really existed in the world. That they were among us." At Harry's frown of confusion, Scorpius smiled again, a little sadly. "It's meant a lot for him to spend time with you recently, I can tell. I don't know if it's been the same for you." His gaze was searching.

Harry's heart was pounding. "It has. It's—I didn't realize how much it meant until recently. But, yes. It has."

Scorpius nodded, his expression looking resolved. "I know Dad can be kind of…abrasive. He's not always the easiest bloke to get along with. And he's the worst kind of bastard when he's hurting—which he has been, very obviously—to me, at least—for the last couple of weeks, which I can only assume had something to do with you, since he snarled at the mere mention of your name."

Harry winced.

"So I guess what I want to know is," Scorpius said, his eyes steely, "are you hurting as much as he is, or was this thing between you as one-sided as my dad seems to think it was?"

"It wasn't one-sided," Harry said bluntly. "I fucked up, and I know it. I want a chance to explain to your father and try to make it up to him, but he's being a stubborn arse and won't even let me get near enough to him to talk."

The corner of Scorpius's mouth twitched upward at that. "That's Dad," he murmured. Then he sighed and grew serious again. "If you really mean that, I'd like to help," he said. When Harry nodded, Scorpius snapped his fingers, and Potsy appeared at his elbow. "It's on," he told her with a nod, and her eyes widened before she cast an excited look at Harry and Disapparated.

Harry stared at where the elf had disappeared, then leveled a look at Scorpius. "Do I want to know what just happened here?"

Scorpius grinned. "In about ten minutes, Dad will be summoned to his personal suite upstairs by one of the house-elves, telling him an urgent Owl has arrived for him, but the bird refuses to give the message to anyone but him. I'll convince him that it's fine to leave for a few minutes. And if you're really serious about this whole thing, that will be your chance to talk to him alone."

Harry stared. "I'm not sure whether to be awed or frightened by you."

Scorpius grinned. "Here, you'd better get going if you want to be upstairs before he is. The suite's just up the central staircase and down to the right—"

"I know where it is," Harry said without thinking, and felt himself blushing spectacularly when Scorpius gave him a startled but impressed look. "No, no!" he added hastily. "It's not what you think—I—"

Scorpius merely shook his head and laughed, and Lily materialized at his elbow, as though drawn by the sound. She threaded her arm through his and leaned her head against his shoulder. He lifted one of her hands to press a kiss to the finger wearing his ring. "Just be good to him," Scorpius told Harry. "I think he's still a little awed by you, too, to be honest." With a parting smile, he led Lily back toward the dance floor, where the band had struck up a rock version of the Celestina Warbeck classic "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love," and Molly and Arthur Weasley were dancing up a storm, to the combined embarrassment and delight of their grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Grinning at the spectacle and feeling his hopes lifting dangerously, Harry stole out of the ballroom and up the staircase toward whatever lay in wait.

*

"Bloody fucking bird," Harry heard as the door swung open some time later. Malfoy halted just inside the doorway and looked around the undisturbed room. "What the hell were they on about?" he muttered.

While Malfoy was distracted, Harry slipped out of the shadows and whispered a strong locking spell. But the displacement of air alerted Malfoy, who spun around and all but growled to find Harry. "You bloody, buggering son of a bitch, what are you doing here?"

"We need to talk, Draco," Harry said.

"No, we don't. We have already established that there is nothing for us to talk about."

" _We_ have established no such thing," Harry retorted, stepping deliberately into Malfoy's personal space, and feeling strangely pleased when Malfoy held his ground, although the man's breathing had turned light and quick, a clear sign of nerves. "I need you to listen to me. I need you to accept my apology."

Malfoy drew himself up, eyes glinting with anger. "I _need_ to do nothing for you, Potter. You came into my home, deceived me, _used_ me—"

"Oh, like you weren't using me, too?" Harry snapped. "You're the one who assaulted me in my own pantry, remember?"

Malfoy glared, his face tight with anger, but there were shadows of hurt in his eyes. "Right," he said. "Because clearly my stupid, stupid drunken advance wasn't meant to be a mere admission of attraction; it was _totally_ an invitation that screamed, 'Yes, Potter, _please_ play on my emotions and get me to open myself up for you so you can use all of it against me later in front of the fucking Wizengamot.'"

Harry reached out a hand to touch him, and Malfoy flinched away. Harry let his hand drop and took a deep breath. "All right," he said. "Yes, at first I took advantage of the situation to pursue the investigation by spending time here. And, yes, for a while I told myself that part of the reason I was messing around with you was to earn your trust so you'd be more likely to reveal something important."

Malfoy's eyes closed at the words, his body swaying slightly, as though from a blow.

"It wasn't just that, though," he insisted. "I was attracted to you, and it confused the hell out of me. And then it was—god, Malfoy, I started to _like_ you."

"Well, that's just terrible, Potter," Malfoy sneered. "How you must have suffered."

"God, you're a pain in the arse," Harry said.

"Why, you silver-tongued devil," Malfoy murmured, eyes narrowed in malice.

"Look, Draco," Harry said, "I know it doesn't mean anything, and I know you won't believe me, but I didn't _want_ you to be the culprit, not once I started to get to know you."

"And once you figured out how talented my mouth is, no doubt," Malfoy said flatly.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Malfoy," Harry practically shouted, exasperated. "Do you really think that if all I wanted was a fuck, I couldn't find it somewhere else? Do you really think I'd put up with all your insults and your childish snits and your goddamned prickly condescension if it weren't _you_ I was interested in and not your mouth or your hands or your cock?"

"So, what, now you _don't_ want to fuck me?" Malfoy lifted an eyebrow. "So fickle."

Harry seized Malfoy's arm before the other man could dart away from him, and dragged him closer. "I want nothing more in the world right now," he hissed, his lips practically touching Malfoy's, "than to throw you on that bed over there and climb on top of you and give you the orgasm of a fucking lifetime." Malfoy's pupils dilated to incredible proportions, his mouth falling open in what had to be unconscious invitation. Harry abruptly released his arm and took a step backward. "But that's not what I came here for. I need you to believe me, Draco." He sighed, frustrated, and lifted his shoulders helplessly. "Damn it, I've _missed_ you. I don't know how you got under my skin, or why it is I seem to _like_ hearing you insult me in creative new ways, or why I'm so desperate to learn more about you, about why you've chosen this path, about your laboratory, about your son and your parents and how you got by after the war. I want to know more about who you are now, and who you were then, and everything that's happened in the interim. And I _hate_ that I didn't trust my instincts and tell Ariadne I _knew_ you weren't behind all this, because now I've probably lost your trust forever, and it had only just begun to dawn on me how very much I'd come to desire that."

He took a deep, steadying breath, but Malfoy didn't move other than to swallow, just once, the soft sound audible in the quiet that rang out in the absence of Harry's rambling voice. His expression was blank, his eyes unreadable.

"I—" Harry shrugged, shaking his head as he felt the weight of defeat crushing his chest, making it hard to breathe. "I don't know what else to say. I guess—I guess I just wish you could begin to trust me again. But I suppose I just have to accept that that's asking for too much." Unable to look at Malfoy's still face any longer, he turned and took out his wand, preparing to unlock the door.

"How will you make it up to me?"

Harry blinked at the words and turned around. Malfoy still hadn't moved noticeably, but there was a curious tension to him that made Harry's heart start to pound. Malfoy's gaze held his, and the expression in his eyes was a swirling mix of defiance and fear that had Harry taking a step closer.

"What do you want me to do?" Harry asked.

"I—" Malfoy swallowed again. "I don't know," he admitted, then rallied, adding, "but it will have to be huge."

"I'd expect nothing less," Harry said, afraid to move closer for fear of ruining everything.

They stared at each other across the distance between them—so small physically, yet so wide a gulf in truth. Finally, with a growl of exasperation, Malfoy strode forward and planted his palm, hard, against Harry's chest, shoving him against the door and sealing his mouth over Harry's. Malfoy tasted like sugar and champagne and that indefinable, irresistible thing that was _Malfoy_. Harry groaned into his mouth, fisting his hands in the front of Malfoy's elegant robes and dragging him closer so they were pressed flush against each other. "Missed you," he murmured.

"Prat," Malfoy whispered back, and kissed him harder.

The wide expanse of the green-draped bed beckoned from the far end of the room, and Harry began guiding Malfoy there step by carefully orchestrated step, their mouths barely parting, hands roaming eagerly over each other's bodies. Malfoy didn't seem to realize they'd reached the bed until he took one final step back and found himself falling backward onto the coverlet with a soft _whump_. 

Harry stood before him and began unfastening his robe. Malfoy's eyes grew wide, his breathing uneven with excitement. "Harry," he gasped. "There's a room full of people downstairs. This isn't really the best time for—"

Harry pressed a hand to Malfoy's shoulder to nudge him back flat on the bed and lay between the vee of Malfoy's legs. Malfoy groaned, his hands clinging to Harry's face, drawing him down for another deep, desperate kiss. "Merlin, you're crazy," he murmured, kissing Harry again and voicing no further protests.

Slowly, bit by bit, Harry stripped Malfoy, unwrapping him like his very own private Christmas present, while Malfoy attacked Harry's own clothing with gratifying eagerness. Never before had Harry been able to appreciate the long, well-haired lines of Malfoy's thighs, his surprisingly muscular shoulders, the flat planes of his strong chest, the left side bisected by an old, ugly scar. Harry traced a finger along the line and Malfoy flushed and tried to bat his hand away. Harry laid his palm flat over it, feeling the rhythm of Malfoy's heart beating rapidly underneath. "What's it from?" Harry asked, wondering if he'd been hurt somehow in the war, or perhaps a work-related incident.

"You," Malfoy said, and turned his face away.

Horror washed over Harry as he remembered the incident, remembered the abhorrent haste and stupidity with which he'd acted, even in the face of Malfoy's provocation. "Oh, god," he murmured, and the words had Malfoy sucking in a breath and laying a hand over Harry's, pressing it to his racing heart.

Malfoy's eyes were clear and direct when they looked up at Harry's. "There were others," he said. "More than a dozen of them across my chest and up onto my neck and shoulders." Harry shuddered at the thought, and Malfoy lifted his other arm to wrap it around Harry and draw him closer. "I got rid of them. I created a potion to cure curse scars, remember? One by one, I watched them disappear. But I decided to leave this one."

"Why?" Harry asked, the stark, smooth line of it feeling like a curse beneath his fingers.

Malfoy's hand drew Harry's face down to press into his shoulder. "I couldn't bear the thought of erasing you entirely from my skin," Malfoy said. Harry felt the vibration of the words against his skin and pressed a slow kiss to Malfoy's jaw.

"I'm sorry," Harry said.

"We all bear evidence of the people who've marked us over the years," Malfoy said. "But some people mark us in more profound ways than others."

Harry lifted himself slightly off Malfoy to gaze down at him, Malfoy's eyes appearing wide and vulnerable. "Still, I'm sorry," he said. "I hate knowing I've marked you in any way—"

Malfoy tilted his head up to kiss Harry softly again. "You've marked me in a lot of ways, Harry. This is only the most visible one. And it's far and away the least important." With that, he kissed Harry more deeply, more insistently, arching his body upward to press more of his gloriously naked flesh against Harry's, and curling a leg around Harry's hip, one strong thigh urging him closer. Harry moaned, his hips moving in a slow rhythm against Malfoy's, the searing, desperate friction of their cocks rubbing against one another fogging his mind with the thought of nothing but _Draco_.

Harry's confidence faltered only when Malfoy Summoned a tube out of the nightstand drawer and pressed it into Harry's hand. "Please," Malfoy whispered into his mouth. "You have no idea—no idea—how badly I've wanted this, and for how long."

With trembling hands, he unscrewed the cap and dampened his fingers, exploring carefully behind Malfoy's balls, watching the effect of his every movement on the lithe, pale body beneath him—how pressing _just so_ caused Malfoy to arch and gasp, while curling his fingers like _this_ made him shake and whimper and throw his head back in surrender. Harry's breath came faster and faster as he slicked himself and allowed Malfoy to guide him into position, the long, slow press of his cock into Malfoy's unbelievable heat drawing a desperate, worshipful hiss from Harry's lips. 

He tried to go slowly, to relish every drawn-out slide of flesh against flesh, the dizzying grasp and release of pressure as he thrust, the way Malfoy's breathing changed with every shift in Harry's movements—quick gasps and labored pants and sharp inhalations through his teeth when Harry's cock rubbed him in just the right way. But it was too much, too good, too overwhelming, and Harry's rhythm grew faster and faster, his cock driving into Malfoy until the increasing frequency of Malfoy's moans turned them into one prolonged ecstatic cry punctuated with _fuck_ and _Merlin_ and _Harry, oh, Harry_ until Malfoy gasped and arched and shouted, straining against Harry for long moments as he came, his entire body seeming to clench around Harry's until Harry thought he might go mad from the pleasure of it.

When Harry's own climax came, his entire body shook, the extraordinary intensity of his orgasm causing him nearly to black out as his hips jerked convulsively, his come spilling in long, wracking spurts that left him feeling hollowed out, but deeply, desperately content as he collapsed onto Malfoy's body in the aftermath, both of their chests still heaving with exertion, skin flushed, hair damp with sweat.

Malfoy's mouth found his, tongue meeting Harry's in a slow dance that left Harry whimpering. When Malfoy drew away, he was smiling, something warm and welcoming in his eyes that made Harry begin to wonder what it would be like to see that expression before him for the rest of his life. The thought left him shaken, and he buried his face in Malfoy's neck, breathing the warm, rich scent of his skin, letting it seep into his memory.

Suddenly Malfoy's body stiffened beneath his. "Oh, bloody hell, the guests!" He started to shove Harry off, but Harry grabbed his hands and held them anchored in his own.

"I'm sure Scorpius is covering for us somehow," he said.

"Scorpius—what?" Malfoy struggled even harder at Harry's words, and finally subsided with a sour glare. "I can't believe you told my _son_ about us."

"Technically," Harry said, "it's more like your son told _me_."

Malfoy stared at him blankly for a moment, then a sly look crossed his face. "Always knew he was a smart one. Bet that owl thing was his idea, wasn't it?" Harry's pursed mouth was apparently all the answer Malfoy needed, because he grinned. "I should have known. Subtlety's definitely not your style, Potter."

Harry reached down between them and curled a hand around Malfoy's spent cock, stroking his fingers lightly along it until it began to show the first sign of renewed interest. Malfoy whimpered and arched against him.

"I don't exactly see you complaining," Harry observed, smirking.

"And as long as you keep doing that, you definitely won't," Malfoy said, slightly breathless.

"If only I'd known back in school that this was all it took to shut you up," Harry murmured into Malfoy's ear.

"If only," Malfoy sighed, taking Harry's face between his hands to draw him down for a kiss that was long, hot, and altogether promising.


End file.
